FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE  LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lend- 
er be — 

For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  an  d 
friend. 

SUAKESPEA  HE. 


Florence  E.  Brig 


gvs. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/poetisOOwood 


THE 


APR  12  1934 

POETICAL    ^Il^KS 


'V 


> 


OP 


SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 


EDITED    BY    HIS    SON. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 

Vol.   I. 


NEW  YOEK: 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER,   GRAND   STREET. 

1861. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860, 
By  FREDERICK  A.  WOOD  WORTH, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 
for  the  Northern  District  of  California, 


M'CREA  &  MILLER    STEREOTYPER8. 

15  Vandewater  Street. 

PRINTED    BY   C.    A-    ALVOKO 


THE    NAME    AND    MEMORY 

OF 

MY    MOTHER, 
(the    poet's    heart-treasure.) 

T1IESK 

forms  of  IHir  Jfa%r 

ATIE 

AFFECTIONATELY      INSCRIBED, 

BY 

FREDERICK   A.   WOODWORTS 


CONTENTS   OF    VOL.   I. 


Introductory  Notice  of  Samuel  "Woodworth page  11 

PASTOEAL  POEMS. 

THE  OLD    OAKEN   BUCKET 31 

THE  YTLLAGE  CLOCK 33 

MY   FATHER'S     FARM 34 

THE   HAYMAKERS 34 

HARVEST    HOME 36 

THE    WATERMELON v 38 

8WEET   SECLUSION 39 

THE   MILKMAID 40 

THE   MOONBEAM 41 

COME    TO    MY  COT 42 

MORN    OF   MAY 44 

THE   COTTAGE  LASS 45 

TnE    PRIDE    OF   THE  VALLEY    46 

DANCING    GAYLY 47 

THE    BALM  OF  THE    HEART 48 

EVENING 49 

I  LOVE  TO   HEAR 50 

YES    OR  NO 51 

GOOD    MORNING 52 

COME  LET  US  TRIP  IT   LIGHTLY . .  54 


CONTENTS    OF  VOLUME    I. 


SENTIMENTAL  POEMS. 

TO  MY  WIFE , PAGE   55 

THE   SIGH 57 

A  SMILE  FROM  THEE .    58 

THE  WBEATH  OF  LOVE 59 

THE    PORTRAIT 61 

love's  LEGER 61 

TO  SOMEBODY 63 

THE    GAELAND 04 

TO  A  NOSEGAY 65 

PEACEFUL    HOME 6T 

LOVE  AND   JEALOUSY 67 

MUSIC  THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LOVE 6S 

I  LOVE   ONLY  THEE 69 

LOVE'S    EYES 70 

LOVE   AND  VALOE 71 

A    KISS 72 

GIVING  AND  RECEIVING 73 

TO    MAEIA 74 

AND  DID  I  UPBEAID  YOU 75 

NATURE  AND  THE   PAS8IONS 76 

I  HAD  A  LYRE 7S 

THE   MEETING 79 

A    DREAM SO 

THE    SMILE    OF  LOVE SI 

I  HBAED  A  SWEET  STEAIN b'2 

HAERIET'S  FAVOEITE  POEMS .  .     S3 

MABELLA S8 

THE  VOYAGE   OF  LIFE SO 

THE  GAMUT 87 

TO  HARRIET 88 

AND  MAY  I  HOPE S9 

TO    CAROLINE 90 

WE  AEE  ONE 91 

RETURNING    HOME 92 

BANKRUPTCY  OF    THE  HEART 93 

A  NUPTIAL   SONG 94 

THE  WIDOWED    IVY 95 

CHRISTMAS    GAMBOLS      96 

land's  end 93 

the  tear  of  gratitude 99 


CONTEXTS    OF    VOLUME    I.  ( 

SPRING   AND   AUTUMN PAGE  100 

TO  ADELAIDE   FELICITY    101 

TO  MISS  SARAH   HOWARD 102 

THE  KALEIDOSCOPE 103 

TITE    IMPRISONED  DEBTOR 104 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  LIFE    105 

EDWIN  DELISLE 103 

FRIENDSHIP 109 

HIBERNIA'S  TEARS Ill 

CALUMNY 112 

OH  TRUST  NOT  HOPE 113 

AX  IMITATION  FROM  THE  FRENCH 114 

THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB 116 

BEAUTY,   SWEET    MYSTERIOUS    POWER 11 T 

THE    MINSTREL US 

A  DUETT — NOW    THE    TORCH 119 

CONFIDING  WOMAN 120 

nARLEM    MARY 120 

THE  BASHFUL    LOYER .'       121 

THE   NEEDLE 122 

WILLIAM'S  GE AYE 1 23 

THIS  LIFE  IS  NOT  THE  YALE    OF  WO 125 

A  TRIO — ADIEU  TO  LOYE 120 

TnE    TOMB    OF  HENRY 127 

NO    MORE    SHALL    HOPES    ILLUSIYE  DREAM 129 

YOU   HESITATE — O    THEN  'TIS  YOU 129 

A  REQUEST 130 

TO  A  LADY — WRITTEN   IN  HER  ALBUM 131 

DEDICATION   OF  AN  ALBUM 132 

ANSWER    TO    A    LADY    WnO    SENT    HER    ALBUM    FOR    A    CONTRI- 
BUTION     1 33 

O  WHAT  IS  YTRTUE  ? 135 

RONDEAU 13G 

TO    MARY 137 

DUETT — AWAY    WITH    CARE    AND    SORROW 13S 

WKITTKN"    IN    MY  NIECE'S  ALBUM 141 

A  TURKISH    SONG 142 

AW  A  KE,   MY   DEAR    JANE 148 

THE    SICILIAN    KNIGHT 144 

THE  KISS  OF  LOYE 145 

HOPE    AND    MEMORY 146 

THE  HARP  TEAT  I   STRUNG 147 


8  CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    I. 

THE   HAPPY    FAMILY PAGE  148 

TO  MISS  HARRIET  T K,  OF  HEMPSTEAD,  L.  1 149 

TO  MISS  MARY  JANE  Y G,  OF  GREENSBUBGH,  PA 150 

EPITHALAMIUM - 152 

LOVES  SHE  LIKE   ME 153 

I  SIGH  NOT   FOR   GLORY 154 

TO  A  LADY  ON  PARTING  WITH  A  COPY  OF   THE    "  DEWDROPS1' .  .  .  155 

LADY,  ACCEPT  THIS   LITTLE    BOOK 155 

YES,  LOVE  HATH  ITS    SORROWS 156 

THE    LOCK    OF   HAIR 157 

MY  CARD-RACK 158 

LOVE,  GENTLE  FAIR,  CAN    BOA8T  A  SOURCE   DIVINE 159 

THE  WHITE    COTTAGE 161 

AUTUMNAL  REFLECTIONS 163 

MARY'S  GRAVE 165 

THE    ORPHAN   MAID 166 

TO    MARY   ANN 16T 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE    HEART 163 

FOR   viola's  ALBUM 169 

DUETT — WHEN  GRIEF  THE    HEART    BENUMBS 1T0 

TO    ELIZA 171 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 172 

THE   SILENT   CONFESSION 173 

O  !   SAY,  CAN   THIS  BE  LOVE  ? 174 

KATHLEEN    O'MOORE 175 

TO    A 176 

TO  IANTHE .  .  .  v 177 

SMILE  OF  AFFECTION 179 

THE   ADIEU 179 

KELIGIOUS  AND  ELEGIAC  PIECES. 

THE    NATIVITY 181 

THE  INCARNATION .  .  .'. 182 

REDEMPTION 184 

GOD  IN  HIS  TEMPLE 185 

THE  WORLD   OF  MIND — FIRST   DAY  OF  CREATION 187 

"  "  "  SECOND    DAY  OF  CREATION 188 

MIRIAM'S  SONG 189 

OPEN  THE  DOOR 191 

HOW  SHALL  I    COME    BEFORE    HIM 192 

HAPPINESS 193 

CONSECRATION 195 


CONTENTS    OF    VOLUME    I.  9 

SIN   NO   MORE PAfl  K  196 

AND  DID  I  SAY  ? 197 

THE  PARALYTIC'S    DEPRECATION 198 

BE    WISE 199 

PHILOSOPHY   AND  RELIGION 200 

WEEPING    MARY 201 

NEW  JERUSALEM 203 

REGENERATION 204 

BRIGHT  IS  THE  WORD 205 

HYMN  ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH 206 

SEEK  YE  THE   LORD 207 

FATHER,  THOU   ART   GOOD 203 

THE   WIDOW 209 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN 211 

ON  HEARING  A  SERMON   ON   THE  PLEASURES  OF  RELIGION 212 

FAITH 213 

THE  SOLAR   SYSTEM    214 

MY   MOTHER'S   GRAVE 21 7 

EPITAPH — SHE  IS  NOT    HERE 225 

EPITAPH  ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  CHILD    226 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN    INFANT 227 

A  MONODY — FLORIAN 229 

ON  THE  DEATH   OF  MISS  ANNA  GREENLEAF 233 

EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUTH 235 

"            ON  A  WIFE    AND    MOTHER    235 

"            ON    AN    INFANT 236 

"            — AH    SEEK  NOT,  READER 236 

"           ON  A  CHARMING  AND   MUCH   LAMENTED  FEMALE 236 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

A  COLLOQUY  WITn  THE  MUSE  .       237 

NAY,  ASK  ME  NOT  FOR  WIT  OR  RHYME 241 

FASHION3 242 

AN  ODE  FOR  THE  GRAND  CANAL  CELEBRATION,  1825 247 

THE  GRAND    CANAL 251 

DFK  ANT*S  ADDRESS  ON  ASCENDING  WITH  A  BALLOON 253 

THE    AERONAUT'S  ADDRESS 254 

AN  ^ronaut's  farewell 256 

NEWSPAPERS 257 

THE  ZODIAC 259 

THE    SEASONS 262 

THE   FIREMAN 269 


10  COXTEXTS   OF    VOLUME    I. 


NEW  YORK PAGE  271 

TALE    COLLEGE    274 

TO    MISS  MARY  WORTHINGTON    MORRIS 27u 

MORNING 277 

TO  ARTHUR    KEENE.  THE  VOCALIST _  > 

THREE  IMPROMPTUS  ON  THE  ROOM  IN  WHICH  SHAKESPEARE  WAS 

BORN 279 

CRITICS 2S0 

TO  MISS  ,  ON  HER  EMBARKING    FOR  HAVRE . 

TO  MY  FRIEND.  M.  E.  PARMLY.  ON  HIS  DEPARTURE  FOR  EUROPE.  .  282 

TO  THEODORE  S.  FAY,  ON  niS  DEPARTURE   FOE  EUROPE 883 

THE  PAST 285 

THE  MINSTREL'S   FAREWELL  TO  HIS  LYRE 28fi 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE 

OF 

SAMUEL    ¥OOD¥ORTH, 

PEEPAEED    FEOM    VAETOU8    SOTJEOE8, 

By    GEORGE    ]P.    MORRIS. 


•  •  • 


Samuel  Woodworth  was  born  at  Scitu- 
ate,  Plymouth  county,  in  the  state  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, on  the  thirteenth  of  January, 
1785.  He  was  the  youngest  of  four  child- 
ren. His  father  was  a  soldier  of  the  Revo- 
lution. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  young  Wood- 
worth  produced  several  effusions  in  verse, 
in  which  his  schoolmates  and  the  clergy- 
man of  the  parish  thought  they  discovered 
traits  of  genius  deserving  encouragement 


12  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

and  cultivation.  He  was,  accordingly, 
with  the  approbation  of  his  parents,  placed 
under  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Nehemiah 
Thomas.  In  the  family  of  this  excellent 
man,  Master  Woodworth  remained  one 
year  ;  during  which  time  he  was  taught 
the  English  and  Latin  grammars,  and 
made  great  proficiency  in  the  study  of  the 
classics. 

Soon  afterward  he  found  it  necessary  to 
make  choice  of  some  occupation  by  which 
he  might  procure  a  livelihood.  He  chose 
the  profession  of  a  printer ;  and,  after  bid- 
ding adieu  to  his  native  town,  proceeded 
to  Boston,  where  he  bound  himself  an  ap- 
prentice to  Benjamin  Bussel,  editor  and 
proprietor  of  the  "  Columbian  Centinel," 
with  whom  he  continued  until  the  term  of 
his  apprenticeship  exjrired,  in  1806.  Dur- 
ing this  period  he  employed  his  leisure- 
hours  in  writing  poetry  for  the  different 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  13 

periodical  publications  then  issued  in  that 
city,  under  the  signature  of  Selim.  He 
continued  to  use  this  nom  de  plume  for 
most  of  his  writings  in  after-life,  and  was 
often  called  by  this  name  among  his 
intimate  friends. 

In  1807,  he  published  a  weekly  sheet  at 
New  Haven,  entitled  the  "  Belles-Lettres 
Repository,"  and  wrote  a  long  poem,  from 
which  we  have  made  several  selections  in 
the  present  volume.  The  following  year 
he  passed  in  Baltimore,  during  which  time 
he  contributed  many  of  his  best  poems  to 
the  newspapers  of  that  city.  In  the  spring 
of  1809  he  proceeded  to  New  York,  where, 
in  1810,  he  married  an  amiable  young 
lady,  by  whom  he  had  a  large  family  of 
children. 

During  the  contest  between  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain,  in  1812-14,  Mr. 
Wood  worth  conducted  a  weekly  newspaper 


14  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

in  New  York,  entitled  "The  War,"  in  which 
he  chronicled  our  victories  by  land  and  sea. 
He  also,  at  that  period,  supplied,  with  his 
ever-ready  pen,  poetical  tributes  to  Amer- 
ican valor  and  patriotism,  which  still  live 
in  the  memory  of  many  whom  they  then 
delighted.  He  edited  at  the  same  time  a 
monthly  magazine,  called  the  "Halcyon 
Luminary  and  Theological  Repository," 
devoted  to  the  promulgation  of  the  doc- 
trines of  the  New  Church  (Swedenbor- 
gian),  of  which  he  was  a  sincere  pro- 
fessor, and  for  some  time  a  licentiate,  in 
the  city  of  New  York. 

In  1816,  he  wrote  the  "  Champions  of 
Freedom,"  a  novel  in  two  volumes ;  and,  at 
a  later  date,  a  series  of  papers,  in  prose, 
entitled  "The  Confessions  of  a  Sensitive 
Man."  He  subsequently  conducted  "The 
Casket,"  "  The  Parthenon,"  and  the  "  Lit- 
erarv  Gazette."     He  was  associated  with 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  15 

the  friend  who  prepares  this  brief  sketch 
of  him  in  the  establishment  of  the  uNew 
York  Mirror,"  during  the  first  year  of  .its 
publication,  which  was  commenced  on  the 
second  of  August,  1823  ;  and  ever  after- 
ward he  remained  a  frequent  contributor 
to  its  columns.  At  this  period  of  his  life, 
he  wrote  much  for  the  stage  ;  and  his  do- 
mestic opera  of  the  "  Forest  Rose"  still 
retains  its  popularity. 

His  poetical  correspondence  was  curious 
and  unique  ;  that  with  Zorayda  is  about  as 
fair  a  specimen  of  the  whole,  as  the  single 
brick  of  antiquity  was  of  the  quality  of 
the  building  it  represented. 
to    selim. 

Enchanting  minstrel !  to  whose  lay 
My  pulses  would  responsive  play, 
Till  reason  yields  her  genial  sway 

To  fascination's  power  : 
I  grieve  that  Fate  should  be  so  hard, 
That  Fortune  shuns  a  modest  bard, 
Who  vainly  asks  of  Fame  reward — 

A  laurel  or  a  flower. 


16  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

You  wake  your  magic  lyre  in  vain. 
And  fruitless  bid  its  chords  complain  ; 
All  listen,  all  admire  the  strain, 

And  •wonder  whence  it  flows : 
But  were  the  world  informed  with  truth, 
Patrons  would  never  raise  the  youth : 
Envy  would  show  his  venomed  tooth. 

And  scorn  increase  his  woes. 

Such  is  a  modern  poet's  fate, 
Unless  his  sphere  is  with  the  great, 
TVhen  gold  will  giTe  his  genius  weight. 

And  purchase  smiles  of  Fame. 
But,  ah !  a  bard,  with  soul  of  fire, 
Tho'  blest  with  Pope's  or  Milton's  lyre, 
If  humbly  born,  must  scarce  aspire 

To  lisp  her  envied  name. 

Then,  Selim,  throw  thy  lyre  away. 
Nor  deign  to  waste  its  dulcet  lay 
On  souls  who  cannot,  while  you  play, 

Appreciate  the  strain; 
Whose  prejudice  forbids  to  know 
The  sweets  which  in  your  numbers  flow- 
Inspiring  joy,  relieving  wo, 

And  lessening  every  pain. 

TO    Z  OR  A  YD  A. 

Does  Selim  wake  his  lyre  in  vain. 

And  fruitless  breathe  the  pensive  strain, 

Because  his  brows  no  laurel  gain. 

And  he  obscurely  sings  ? 
As  well  might  fair  Zorayda  say, 
The  sylvan  fountains  vainly  play, 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  .1*1 

When  forests  hide  their  darkened  way, 
And  rocks  conceal  their  springs. 

But,  lovely  minstrel !  learn  to  know 
Their  streamlets  kiss  the  meads  below, 
Who  drink  unconscious  whence  they  flow, 

And  thence  derive  their  smile ; 
So  may  his  song,  perhaps,  impart 
A  glow  of  transport  to  the  heart 
Bid  rapture  smile,  or  grief  depart, 

And  he  unknown  the  while. 

Do  Selim's  numbers  flow  in  vain, 
Because,  as  hundreds  more  complain, 
Forttt>~e  will  ne'er  reward  the  strain, 

Nor  gild  his  vocal  reed  ? 
Then,  where  Canary  blooms  in  spring, 
Her  golden  tenants  vainly  sing, 
If  hunger  urge  to  spread  the  wing, 

Or  stoop  to  peck  the  seed. 

But  know,  where'er  the  songster  rove, 
The  strain  he  warbles  through  the  grove, 
Delights  himself,  or  charms  his  love, 

Whose  charms  the  strain  inspire  : 
So  I  the  lingering  hour  beguile, 
Lean  o'er  my  harp,  entranced  the  while, 
And  gain,  from  her  I  love,  a  smile, 

Whose  beauty  tunes  my  lyre. 

No,  Selim  does  not  sing  in  vain, 
If  fair  Zorayda  hear  the  strain, 
And  in  her  matchless  numbers  deign 

To  plead  the  poet's  cause ; 
For  others  Fate  may  trophies  pile, 
Serener  jovs  are  his  the  while; 

2 


LS  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

He  asks  no  fortune  but  her  smile, 
No  fame  but  her  applause. 

TO     SELIM. 

Go  on,  contented  youth !  Zorayda  err'd — 
Resume  your  lyre,  and  charm  the  Paphian  grove, 

Nor  beg  the  boon,  but  claim  your  just  reward, 
The  admiration  of  the  sex  you  love. 

But  if  the  happy  fair  who  tunes  your  lyre 

Reciprocate  the  flame  her  Selim  sings, 
Let  Love  not  always  whisper  from  the  wire, 

But  loftier  numbers  animate  the  strings. 

Tour  country's  glory  claims  exalted  praise, 
In  years  an  infant,  but  matured  in  fame ; 

Heroes  are  hers  whose  acts  deserve  your  lays, 
Then  gild  your  rising  song  with  Freedom's  name. 

When  foreign  despots  dare  usurp  the  deep, 
And  add  new  wrongs  to  insults  unredressed, 

"With  bolder  hand  the  chords  indignant  sweep, 
And  vengeance  wake  in  every  freeman's  breast. 

And  should  our  injuries  at  length  demand 
Bellona's  banner  once  again  unfurled, 

Then  let  the  strain,  which  fires  the  patriot  band, 

Swell  like  our  thunders,  which  shall  shake  the  world. 

The  sword  of  vengeance  will  not  gleam  in  vain, 

Nor  vainly  burst  our  cataracts  of  fire ; 
Freedom  shall  ride  triumphant  o'er  the  main, 

And  Europe's  pirates  in  dismay  retire. 

The  dove  of  peace  shall  soon  regain  her  nest, 
And  Jove's  blest  bird  the  olive  branch  display; 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  19 

Then  he  the  change  in  softer  notes  expressed, 
And  Love  again  be  warbled  in  your  lay. 

Soft  as  the  zephyrs,  when  they  fan  the  lake, 
And  dimpling  smiles  betray  the  ravished  kiss, 

In  sweeter  tones  your  numbers  then  may  wake, 
And  every  note  breathe  friendship,  love,  and  peace. 

So  I  have  seen  the  bolt  of  vengeance  hurled, 
While,  clothed  in  tempests,  angry  nature  frowned ; 

Anon  her  smiles  were  scattered  o'er  the  world, 
And  sweeter  wreaths  her  glowing  temples  bound. 

Bright  gems  of  silver  glittered  from  the  spray, 

And  deeper  tints  in  every  blossom  glowed ; 
The  woodland  songsters  caught  a  livelier  lay, 

And  melody  in  richer  streamlets  flowed. 

TO     ZORAYDA. 

Ah  !  why,  sweet  minstrel !  why  bid  Selim  soar 

Beyond  the  limits  of  his  humble  sphere  ? 
Why  bid  him  ape  the  thunder's  awful  roar, 

nd  swell  the  train  in  madd'ning  war's  career  ? 

Forbear,  dear  girl !  to  urge  the  strange  request- 
He  cannot  rouse  his  milky  heart  to  rage ; 

Then  let  him  lull  the  timorous  bird  to  rest. 
Or  feel  it  dance  with  pleasure  in  its  cage. 

His  gentle  muse  on  Heliconia  strays, 

Or  gayly  sports  in  sweet  Pierian  bowers ; 
And,  when  descending  to  inspire  his  lays, 

Her  airy  form  is  but  the  breath  of  flowers. 

Minerva's  helm  her  brow  could  ne'er  sustain ; 
The  sword  of  Mars  her  arm  could  never  wield — 


20  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

He  cannot  woo  her  to  a  task  so  vain — 
She  flies  with  terror  the  embattled  field. 

He  once  essayed ;  but,  like  the  Mantuan  swain, 

Apollo  checked  his  vain  presumptuous  pride- 
Forbade  him  to  attempt  the  daring  strain, 
Nor  paint  the  scene  where  brave  Montgomery  died. 

He  blushed,  obeyed,  nor  more  mistakes  his  powers; 

One  wish  alone  his  ardent  soul  employs — 
In  Beauty's  smile  to  bask  life's  summer  hours, 

To  feast  on  love,  and  banquet  on  its  joys. 

Life  is  a  chase,  the  game  terrestrial  bliss ; 

If  shadows  please,  why  not  a  shade  pursue  ? 
He  tastes  it  in  affection's  nectared  kiss ; 

His  song  affords  it — if  approved  by  you. 

There  is  a  magic  harp  whose  dulcet  tones 

JEolus  only  has  the  skill  to  wake ; 
Which  breathes  to  Night  its  sweetly-singing  moans, 

If  no  rude  blast  the  soft  enchantment  break. 

He  came  with  fragrance  on  his  lucid  wings, 
Paused  as  he  passed,  enraptured  at  the  sight ; 

Then  fondly  stooped  and  kissed  the  silken  strings, 
TVhich  woke  in  ecstacy,  and  breathed  delight. 

The  playful  god  in  transport  bore  away 
The  ravished  sweets  his  lawless  kisses  stole ; 

And  distance  heard  the  breezy  notes  decay, 
In  sighs  whose  softness  harmonized  the  soul 

But  Boreas  came  with  rude  disastrous  breath, 
And  swept  the  tender  strings  with  direful  force, 

Harsh  Discoed  waked,  and,  like  the  bird  of  death, 
Shrieked  to  the  gale  in  accents  loud  and  hoarse. 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTil.  21 

Such  is  the  lyre  which  Selim,  when  a  child, 
Received  with  rapture  from  the  pensive  muse ; 

Its  whispers  please  him,  though  untaught  and  wild; 
But  loftier  tones  the  trembling  chords  refuse. 

0 1  then  permit  him  still  the  gentler  strain, 

In  all  its  tender  languishments,  to  wake ; 
For  if  he  rudely  sweep  the  strings  again, 

He  fears,  Zorayda,  that  his  lyre  will  break. 

TO     SELIM. 

Has  Selim  the  soul  which  his  numbers  portray, 
And  is  it  expressed  in  the  glance  of  his  eye? 

Then  would  I  for  ever  exist  in  the  ray, 
While  mine  to  his  harp  should  respond  with  a  sigh. 

If  his  heart  truly  throb  to  the  notes  of  his  lyre, 

And  is  in  his  accents  as  sweetly  expressed, 
His  voice  must  be  music — must  rapture  inspire ; 

To  quaff  the  rich  melody  is  to  be  blest. 

If  his  feelings  are  justly  portrayed  by  his  muse, 

And  are  in  his  visage  correctly  displayed, 
What  fair  but  with  rapture  that  visage  reviews, 

Reflection's  fair  model,  by  beauty  arrayed  ? 

In  short,  if  his  mind  is  expressed  in  his  lays, 
.     So  melting  in  sorrow,  in  rapture  so  warm, 
And  his  form  correspond,  it  were  rashness  to  gaze — 
The  heart,  unresisting,  must  yield  to  the  charm. 

But,  ah  1  if  hypocrisy  warble  the  strain, 
And  the  soul  have  no  part  in  its  magical  sweets, 

0 1  tell  me,  and  then  ape  Apollo  in  vain, 
But  never  emerge  from  thy  secret  retseats. 


22  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

The  whole  career  of  Samuel  Wo^dworth 
was  full  of  interest.  He  has  been  eulo- 
gized by  Clinton,  Webster,  Channing, 
Everett,  Halleck,*  Pinkney,  Irving,  Pauld- 

*  Fitz  Greene  Halleck  rendered  a  graceful  tribute  to 
Woodworth  in  these  beautiful  lines — "  To  the  Poet's 
Daughter,  written  in  the  Album  of  Miss  Harriet  Wood- 
worth." 

"A  lady  asks  the  Minstrel's  rhyme. 
A  lady  asks  ?    There  was  a  time 
When,  musical  as  play-bell's  chime 

To  wearied  boy, 
That  sound  would  summon  dreams  sublime 
Of  pride  and  joy. 

"  But  now  the  spell  hath  lost  its  sway, 
Life's  first-born  fancies  first  decay, 
Gone  are  the  plumes  and  pennons  gay 

Of  young  Romance ; 
There  linger  but  her  ruins  gray, 

And  broken  lance. 

"  'Tis  a  new  world— no  more  to  maid, 
Warrior,  or  bard,  is  homage  paid ; 
The  bay-tree's,  laurel's,  myrtle's  shade, 

Men's  thoughts  resign ; 
Heaven  placed  us  here  to  vote  and  trade, 

Twin  tasks  divine ! 

'Tis  youth,  'tis  beauty  asks ;  the  green 
And  growing  leaves  of  seventeen 


I 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  23 

ing,  Griswold,  Duyckinck,  Story,  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott,  and  other  eminent  scholars  and 

Are  round  her ;  and,  half  hid,  half  seen, 

A  violet  flower, 
Nursed  by  the  virtues  she  hath  been 

From  childhood's  hour. 

"  Blind  passion's  picture — yet  for  this 
We  woo  the  life-long  bridal  kiss, 
And  blend  our  every  hope  of  bliss 

With  hers  we  love ; 
Unmindful  of  the  serpents  hiss 

In  Eden's  grove. 

"  Beauty — the  fading  rainbow's  pride, 
Youth — 'twas  the  charm  of  her  who  died 
At  dawn,  and  by  her  coffin's  side 

A  grandsire  stands, 
Age-strengthened,  like  the  oak  storm-tried 

Of  mountain  lands. 

"  Youth's  coffin — hush  the  tale  it  tells ! 
Be  silent,  memory's  funeral  bells  I 
Lone  in  one  heart,  her  home,  it  dwells 

Untold  till  death, 
And  where  the  grave-mound  greenly  swells 

O'er  buried  faith. 

"  Bat  what  if  hers  are  rank  and  power, 
Armies  her  train,  a  throne  her  bower, 
A  kingdom's  gold  her  marriage  dower, 

Broad  seas  and  lands  ? 
What  if  from  bannered  hall  and  tower 

A  queen  commands  ? 


24  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

gentlemen.     Several  of  his  poems  were  a  i 
tributed  to  Wordsworth  ;  and,  as  such,  be 

"  A  queen  ?    Earth's  regal  moons  have  set. 

Where  perished  Marie  Antoinette  ? 

Where's  Bordeaux's  mother?    Where  the  jet- 
Black  Haytian  dame  ? 

And  Lusitania's  coronet? 
And  Angouleme 

"  Empires  to-day  are  upside  down, 
The  castle  kneels  before  the  town, 
The  monarch  fears  a  printer's  frown, 

A  brickbat's  range ; 
Give  me,  in  preference  to  a  crown, 

Five  shillings  change. 

"  But  she  who  asks,  though  first  among 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  young, 
The  birthright  of  a  6pell  more  strong 

Than  these  hath  brought  her ; 
She  is  your  kinswoman  in  song — 

A  Poet's  daughter. 

"A  Poet's  daughter?    Could  I  claim 
The  consanguinity  of  fame, 
Yeins  of  my  intellectual  frame ! 

Your  blood  would  glow 
Proudly  to  sing  that  gentlest  name 

Of  aught  below. 

"A  Poet's  daughter — dearer  word 
Lip  hath  not  spoke  nor  listener  heard, 
Fit  theme  for  song  of  bee  and  bird 
From  morn  till  even, 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  25 

came  exceedingly  popular  in  England  ; 
from  the  newspapers  of  which  country 
they  were  re-copied  in  the  United  States, 
as  the  productions  of  the  great  lake-poet. 
Many  of  his  most  distinguished  fellow- 
laborers  in  the  literary  vineyard  were 
liberal  in  their  commendations  of  his  effu- 
sions, and  he  himself  w^as  one  of  the  most 
conciliatory  of  critics,  and  ever  ready  to 
discern,  welcome,  and  encourage  true 
merit,  wherever  he  found  it. 

In  an  outline  sketch  like  this,  we  can 
allude  to  only  a  few  of  his  many  gracious 
qualities  of  head  and  heart.  He  was  a 
genuine  poet   of  Nature's   own  creation. 


And  wind-harp  by  the  breathing  stirred 
Of  star-lit  heaven. 

"My  spirit's  wings  are  weak,  the  fire 
Poetic  comes  but  to  expire ; 
Her  name  needs  not  my  humble  lyre 

To  bid  it  live ; 
Slie  hath  already  from  her  sire 

All  lard  can  give." 


26  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

He  wrote  because  he  could  not  help  yield- 
ing to  the  impulse  of  his  genius ;  and  all 
his  productions  breathe  a  pure,  healthy, 
benevolent  spirit,  and  are  invariably  sound 
in  sentiment  and  musical  in  expression. 

The  three  previous  editions  of  the  poeti- 
cal works  of  Samuel  "Woodworth  being 
entirely  out  of  print,  this  first  complete 
edition  will,  no  doubt,  not  only  prove  the 
truth  of  our  estimate  of  his  genius,  but  be 
a  valuable  contribution  to  American  litera- 
ture. 

Woodworfch's  life  was  imbued  with  the 
same  kind,  gentle,  and  amiable  spirit 
which  marked  his  writings.  In  all  the 
relations  of  husband,  father,  friend,  and 
citizen,  he  was  most  exemplary ;  and  those 
who  knew  him  best,  most  appreciated  his 
worth.  He  was  deservedly  and  universal- 
ly beloved.  Many  of  his  productions  have 
the  elements  of  perpetuity  within    them. 


SAMUEL    WOODWORIII.  27 

His  "  Old  Oaken  Bucket"*  will  be  sung, 

read,  and  admired,  as  long  as  cool  water 

from  the  well  continues  to  slake  the  thirst 

of  the  weary  traveller. 

*  The  following  reminiscence  possesses  sufficient  in- 
terest, Ave  think,  to  warrant  us  in  presenting  it  here.  It 
is  a  condensed  private  letter  received  from  one  whose 
authority  in  the  matter  cannot  be  questioned.  In  re- 
ference to  the  period  of  the  production  of  the  "  Old 
Oaken  Bucket,'*  the  writer  says:  "It  was  written  in  the 
spring  or  summer  of  1817.  The  family  were  living  at 
the  time  in  Duane  street.  The  poet  came  home  to  dinner 
one  very  warm  day,  having  walked  from  his  office, 
somewhere  near  the  foot  of  Wall  street.  Being  much 
heated  with  the  exercise,  he  drank  a  glass  of  water — 
New  York  pump  water — exclaiming,  as  he  replaced 
the  tumbler  on  the  table,  ■  That  is  very  refreshing  ; 
but  how  much  more  refreshing  would  it  be  to  take  a 
good  long  draught,  this  warm  day,  from  the  old  oaken 
bucket  I  left  hanging  in  my  fathers  well,  at  home  V 
Hearing  this,  the  poet's  wife,  who  was  always  a  sug- 
gestive body,  said,  '  Selim,  why  wouldn't  that  be  a 
pretty  subject  for  a  poem?'  The  poet  took  the  hint, 
and.  under  the  inspiration  of  the  moment,  sat  down  and 
poured  out  from  the  very  depths  of  his  heart  those 
beautiful  lines  which  have  immortalized  the  name  of 
Woodworth." 


28  INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE    OF 

Of  this  charming  pastoral  song,  "William 
Leggett,  one  of  the  most  careful  and  dis- 
criminating critics  of  our  time,  has  thus 
spoken  :  "  Its  merit  consists  in  the  graphic 
accuracy  of  the  description,  the  simplicity 
and  nature  of  its  sentiments,  and  the  me- 
lodious flow  of  the  versification.  It  appeals 
to  feelings  cherished  in  every  human 
bosom,  which,  though  they  may  be  sup- 
pressed for  a  while,  can  never  be  extin- 
guished ;  but  are  called  up  anew  by  such 
strains,  as  the  one  we  are  speaking  of.  with 
a  train  of  sweet  associations,  that  *  lap  us 
in  Elysium/  Amidst  the  thousand  vexa- 
tions and  perplexities  of  business,  the  mere 
perusal  or  accidental  hearing  of  this  song, 
gathers  around  us  the  scenes  and  com- 
panions of  our  school-boy  days,  creating  in 
our  hearts  a  tide  of  emotions,  fresh  and 
pure  as  the  fountain  that  gushes  from  the 
rock  of  the  desert.     We  hear  the  splash 


SAMUEL    WOODWORTH.  29 

of  the  water  as  it  falls  down  the  sides  of 
the  moss-lined  well ;  we  view  the  dimpling 
and  rippling  undulations  of  the  surface  be- 
low, as  it  is  sprinkled  by  the  dripping 
upon  it ;  we  see  on  one  side  the  meadow, 
green  with  the  fragrant  luxuriance  of  sum- 
mer, and  on  the  other,  the  bridge  and  the 
cataract,  and  the  dairy-house;  the  cool- 
ness of  the  water  is  on  the  lip,  familiar 
noises  are  sounding  in  our  ear,  and,  in 
short,  this  delightful  little  poem  forms 
around  us,  with  the  delusive  power  of  a 
dream,  a  chain  of  heart-hoarded  circum- 
stances which  can  never  be  united  again, 
except  by  the  witchery  of  the  poet,  or  the 
wand  of  fancy,  in  those  still  hours  when 
she  exerts  full  influence  over  our  minds." 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  discuss  the 
literary  merits  of  Samuel  Woodworth.  We 
can  safely  leave  his  fame  as  a  poet  to 
time  and  his  country. 


30  SAMUEL    WOODWORTH. 

Six  years  previous  to  his  death,  he  had 
an  attack  of  paralysis,  the  effects  of  which 
he  bore  with  his  characteristic  fortitude 
and  meekness.  He  breathed  his  last  on 
the  ninth  of  December,  1842,  in  the  fifty- 
eighth  year  of  his  age. 


PASTORAL  POEMS. 


THE  BUCKET. 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 
childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood 
by  it, 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract 
fell, 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the 
well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 


32  THE    BUCKET. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure, 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned   from  the 
field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 
glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflow- 
ing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the 
well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  re- 
ceive it, 
As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to 
leave  it, 
The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the 
well  — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well ! 


THE    VILLAGE    CLOCK.  38 


THE  VILLAGE  CLOCK. 

The  morn  awakes,  in  blushes  dressed, 

The  lambs  are  all  at  play, 
The  blackbird  quits  his  dewy  nest, 

And  carols  on  the  spray  ; 
The  milkmaid  hails  the  rosy  dawn, 

The  shepherd  seeks  his  fleecy  flock, 
The  woods  resound  to  the  hunter's  horn, 

All  roused  by  the  village  clock. 
Tick  !  tick  !  —  tick !  tick !  —  tick  !  tick ! 

All  roused  by  the  village  clock. 

The  milky  herd  their  stores  resign, 

And  soon  regain  the  mead, 
Where  cooling  shades  and  streams  combine 

To  cheer  them  while  they  feed. 
When  evening  twilight  veils  the  lawn, 

Again  the  milkmaid  trips  away, 
While  woods  resound  to  the  distant  horn, 

At  the  closing  hour  of  day. 
Tick  !  tick  !  —  tick  !  tick !  —  tick  !  tick  ! 

At  the  closing  hour  of  day. 
3 


34  ffrE    HAY-MAKERS. 


MY  FATHER'S  FARM. 

Believe  me,  if  there's  aught  on  earth, 

That  can  each  grief  disarm, 
?Tis  the  sweet  spot  which  gave  me  birth, 
When  smiling  memory  paints  its  worth, 

It  is  my  father's  farm. 

For  every  native  rural  charm 

Adorns  my  father's  farm. 

Though  fancy's  flight  may  mock  the  blast, 

To  seek  some  distant  charm, 
How  soon  her  eyes  are  homeward  cast ! 
She  roves  awhile,  but  lights,  at  last, 

Upon  my  father's  farm. 

For  every  native  rural  charm 

Adorns  my  father's  farm. 


THE  HAY-MAKERS. 

It  is  sweet,  love,  to  stray, 
"When  the  noon-tide  is  over, 

Through  the  windrows  of  hay, 
And  the  white-blossomed  clover 


THE    HAY-MAKERS.  35 

Where  each  lass  may  partake 

In  the  toil  and  the  pleasure, 
Keeping  time,  with  the  rake, 

To  the  lark's  tuneful  measure. 
Oh  'tis  sweet  thus  to  stra}7, 

When  the  noon-tide  is  over, 
Through  the  windrows  of  hay, 

And  the  white-blossomed  clover. 

There  the  swains  cut  their  paths 

Through  the  sections  assigned  them, 
Leaving  sweet-scented  swaths 

Swelling  gayly  behind  them. 
Tender  childhood  and  age, 

Sturdy  manhood  and  beauty, 
All  with  ardor  engage 

In  so  pleasing  a  duty. 
Oh  'tis  sweet  thus  to  stray, 

When  the  noon-tide  is  over, 
Through  the  windrows  of  hay, 

And  the  white-blossomed  clover. 

As  the  billow  of  grass 

Over  the  meadow  is  driven, 
By  some  rose-visa ged  lass 

7Tis  divided  and  riven, 
When  her  swain  lends  his  aid, 

And  the  green  hillock  rises, 


36  HARVEST-HOME. 

Then  the  half-willing  maid 

With  a  sly  kiss  surprises. 
Oh  'tis  sweet  thus  to  stray, 

When  the  noon-tide  is  over, 
Through  the  windrows  of  hay, 

And  the  white  blossomed  clover. 

See  the  gay  romping  elves, 

Now  the  sweet  task  is  over, 
All  amusing  themselves, 

On  the  balm-breathing  clover  ; 
There  the  swain  whispers  love 

To  his  heart's  dearest  treasure, 
Who  affects  to  reprove, 

While  her  eyes  beam  with  pleasure. 
Oh  'tis  sweet  thus  to  stray, 

When  the  noon-tide  is  over, 
Through  the  windrows  of  hay, 

And  the  white-blossomed  clover. 


HARVEST-HOME. 

When  mellow  autumn  yields 
All  her  golden  treasures, 

Then  those  who  dressed  the  fields, 
Partake  of  harvest  pleasures. 


HARVEST-HOME.  61 


This,  lads,  is  harvest-home  : 

Those  who  labor  daily, 
Well  know  'tis  sweet  to  come, 

And  pass  the  evening  gayly. 
Then  let  each  heart  be  light, 

Here  's  no  room  for  sorrow, 
Joy  holds  her  court  to-night, 

Care  may  call  to-morrow. 

Now  labor  wipes  his  brow, 

Rest  and  plenty  wrait  him, 
Barn,  cellar,  rick,  and  mow, 

Are  filled  to  recreate  him. 
Scythe,  sickle,  rake,  and  hoe, 

All  are  now  suspended, 
Like  trophies  in  a  row, 

For  future  use  intended. 
Then  let  each  heart  be  light, 

Here 's  no  room  for  sorrow, 
Joy  holds  her  court  to-night, 

Care  may  call  to-morrow. 

Now  gay  Pomona's  store 
Past  exertions  blesses  ; 

Rich  streams  of  nectar  pour, 
Sparkling  from  her  presses. 

Full  goblets,  steaming  board, 
Crown  the  farmer's  labors, 


38  THE    WATERMELON. 

These  real  bliss  afford, 

When  shared  by  jovial  neighbors. 
Then  let  each  heart  beat  light, 

Here  's  no  room  for  sorrow, 
Joy  holds  her  court  to-night, 

Care  may  call  to-morrow. 


THE  WATERMELON. 

?Twas  noon,  and  the  reapers  reposed  on  the  bank 

Where  our  rural  repast  had  been  spread, 
Beside  us  meandered  the  rill  where  we  drank, 

And  the  green  willows  waved  overhead. 
Lucinda,  the  queen  of  our  rustical  treat, 

With  smiles,  like  the  season,  auspicious, 
Had  rendered  the  scene  and  the  banquet  more 
sweet, 

But,  oh !  the  dessert  was  delicious ! 

A  melon,  the  richest  that  loaded  the  vine, 

The  kind-hearted  damsel  had  brought, 
Its  crimson  core  teemed  with  the  sweetest  of  wine, 

"  How  much  like  her  kisses  I"  I  thought. 
And  I  said,  as  its  nectarous  juices  I  quaffed 

"  How  vain  are  the  joys  of  the  vicious  ! 
No  tropical  fruit  ever  furnished  a  draught 

So  innocent,  pure,  and  delicious. 


SWEET    BBCLUSION.  6\f 

Iii  the  seeds  which  embellished  this  red  juicy  core 

An  emblem  of  life  we  may  view, 
For  human  enjoyments  are  thus  sprinkled  over 

With  specks  of  an  ebony  hue. 
But  if  we  are  wise  to  discard  from  the  mind 

Every  thought  and  affection  that?s  vicious, 
Like  the  seed-speckled  core  of  the  melon,  we  '11 
find 

Each  innocent  pleasure  delicious." 


SWEET  SECLUSION. 

Here,  in  scenes  of  sweet  seclusion, 
Far  from  bustling  towns,  we  dwell, 

While  around,  in  rich  profusion, 
Autumn's  yellow  bounties  swell. 

There,  the  loaded  fruit-trees,  bending, 
Strew  with  mellow  gold  the  land  ; 

Here,  on  high,  from  vines  impending, 
Purple  clusters  court  the  hand. 

All  the  day,  to  recreate  us, 

Strains  of  music  freight  the  breeze, 
Healthful  sports  at  eve  awaits  us, 

What  are  city  joys  to  those  ? 


40 


THE    MILKMAID. 


THE  MILKMAID. 


When  blushing  Aurora  first  tinges  the  east, 
Arousing  the  musical  choirs  of  the  wood, 
Inviting  the  bees  to  a  nectarious  feast, 

And  the  flocks  to  partake  of  their  dew-sprin- 
kled food, 
As  blithe  and  as  gay  as  the  new-awakened  day, 
I  rise  and  go  tripping  with  milkpail  away, 
And  hark  !  the  sweet  lark,  kindly  perched  on  the 

spray, 
Responsively  echoes  my  blithe  roundelay. 

The  innocent  plunder  I  draw  from  the  kine 
Is  richly  repaid  in  the  fields  where  they  roam, 

And  a  second  supply  they  will  gladly  resign, 
When  evening  invites,  and  they  lowing  come 
home. 

Then,  cheerful  and  gay  as  the  first  smile  of  day, 

Again  will  I  trip  it  with  milkpail  away ; 

And  hark  !  the  sweet  lark,  kindly  perched  on  the 
spray, 

Responsively  echoes  my  blithe  roundelay. 


THK    MOONBEAM.  41 


THE  MOONBEAM. 

The  moonbeam  on  the  Hudson  sleeps, 

While  von  enamored  billow 
Delighted  to  the  stranger  creeps, 

And  makes  his  breast  her  pillow. 
The  rest,  with  dark  and  frowning  mein, 

And  jealous  murmurs,  languish, 
While  amorous  zephyrs  pass  the  scene, 

And  sigh  with  kindred  anguish. 

So,  when  the  fair  Pastorals  smile 

Her  favored  Lubin  blesses  — 
Who  steals  a  kiss,  and  plays  the  while 

With  her  unbraided  tresses  — 
The  shepherds  who  have  wooed  in  vain, 

In  sorrow  doomed  to  languish, 
Behold  the  happy,  envied  swain, 

And  sigh  with  jealous  anguish. 


42  COME    TO    MY    COT. 


COME  TO  MY  COT. 

I  Ve  a  peaceful  little  cot, 
In  a  charming  rural  spot, 

Far  removed  from  the  town's  busy  hum, 
Where  neither  strife  nor  noise 
Can  molest  our  placid  joys, 

Oh  then  hither  to  my  cot  will  you  come  ? 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 
Oh  haste,  my  dearest  maid, 
And  enjoy  the  fragrant  shade, 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 

The  honeysuckle  there 
With  its  odor  fills  the  air, 

And  the  fir  lends  its  fragrant  gum, 
While  on  every  verdant  spray 
Little  songsters  carol  gay, 

Oh  then  hither  to  my  cot  will  you  come  ? 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 
Oh  haste,  my  dearest  maid, 
And  enjoy  the  fragrant  shade, 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 

Through  the  garden,  and  the  mead 
Where  the  lambkins  play  and  feed, 


COME    TO    MY    COT.  43 

Swells  the  honey-bee's  tuneful  hum, 
While  the  distant  lowing  kine, 
With  the  waterfall,  combine 

To  invite  you  to  my  cot  —  Will  you  come  ? 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 
Oh  haste,  my  dearest  maid, 
And  enjoy  the  fragrant  shade, 

To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 

And  when  the  evening's  shade 

Is  extending  over  the  glade, 
And  the  woodpecker  ceases  to  drum, 

Then  the  pensive  whip-poor-will, 

From  the  forest  or  the  hill, 
Still  invites  you  to  my  cot  —  Will  you  come  ? 
To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 

Oh  haste,  my  dearest  maid,  &c. 

Dearest  maiden,  linger  not, 

Come  and  share  my  peaceful  lot, 
Far  removed  from  the  town's  busy  hum, 

For  if  Eden  seemed  a  wild 

Until  lovely  woman  smiled, 
Oh  how  can  I  be  happy  till  you  come  ? 
To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 

Then  haste,  my  dearest  maid, 

And  enjoy  the  fragant  shade, 
To  my  rural  little  cot  will  you  come  ? 


44  MORN    OF    MAY. 


MORN  OF  MAY. 

Arise,  my  love  —  the  sun  appears 

To  gild  the  infant  day, 
His  golden  beam  the  landscape  cheers, 
And  nature  smiles  amid  her  tears, 

To  greet  the  morn  of  May. 

Arise,  my  love  —  the  lilac  blooms, 

The  blossomed  peach  is  gay, 
The  mead  its  flowery  vest  resumes, 
And  freights  the  zephyr  with  perfumes, 
To  cheer  the  morn  of  May. 

Oh  !  then  arise  —  'tis  love  invites, 

Together  let  us  stray  ; 
Thy  form,  which  every  charm  unites, 
Shall  lend  a  thousand  new  delights 

To  gild  the  morn  of  May. 


. 


THE    COTTAGE    LASS.  45 


THE  COTTAGE  LASS. 

The  cottage  lass,  the  courtly  dame, 

The  child  of  toil,  and  slave  of  fashion, 
Alike  disown  the  mystic  flame, 

Yet  feed  with  sighs  the  tender  passion. 
Each  heart,  ere  age  its  fervor  chills, 

Is  doomed  by  turns  to  throb  and  languish, 
And  prove  the  thousand  nameless  thrills 

Of  bashful  love's  delicious  anguish. 

But  infant  love  attempts  in  vain 

To  fan  the  flame  with  gilded  pinion, 
And  quickly  bursts  the  heavy  chain 

That  ties  him  down  to  wealth's  dominion. 
For  ah  !  that  flame  but  seldom  lives 

In  breasts  with  gaudy  splendor  laden, 
Nor  yields  them  half  the  joy  it  gives 

The  bashful,  blooming,  cottage  maiden. 


4.6  THE    1'KIDE    UF    THE    VALLEY. 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

The  pride  of  the  valley  is  lovely  young  Ellen, 

Who  dwells  in  a  cottage  enshrined  by  a  thicket, 
Contentment  and  peace  are  the  wealth  of  hei 
dwelling, 

And  truth  is  the  porter  that  waits  at  the  wicket. 
The  zephyr  that  lingers  on  violet-down  pinion, 

With   spring's   blushing   honors  delighted  to 
dally, 
Ne'er  breathed  on  a  blossom  in  Flora's  dominion, 

So  lovely  as  Ellen,  the  pride  of  the  valley. 

She 's  true  to  her  friend,  and  she 's  kind  to  her 
mother, 

Nor  riches  nor  honors  can  tempt  her  from  duty  ; 
Content  with  her  station  she  sighs  for  no  other, 

Though  fortunes  and  titles  have  knelt  to  her 
beauty. 
To  me  her  affections  and  promise  are  plighted, 

Our  ages  are  equal,  our  tempers  will  tally  ; 
Oh,  moment  of  rapture !  that  sees  me  united 

To  lovely  young  Ellen,  the  pride  of  the  valley. 


DANCING    GAYLY.  47 


DANCING  GAYLY. 


Sweet  the  hour,  when,  freed  from  labor, 

Lads  and  lasses  thus  convene, 
To  the  merry  pipe  and  tabor, 

Dancing*  gayly  on  the  green. 
To  the  merry  pipe  and  tabor, 

Dancing  gayly  on  the  green. 

Nymphs,  with  all  their  native  graces, 
Swains  with  every  charm  to  win, 

Sprightly  steps,  and  smiling  faces, 
Tell  of  happy  hearts  within. 

Sweet  the  hour,  when,  freed  from  labor,  &c. 

Blest  with  plenty,  here  the  farmer 

Toils  for  those  he  loves  alone, 
While  some  pretty  smiling  charmer, 

Like  the  land,  is  all  his  own. 
Sweet  the  hour,  when,  freed  from  labor,  &c. 

Though  a  tear  for  prospects  blighted, 

May,  at  times,  unbidden  flow, 
Yet  the  heart  will  bound  delighted, 

Where  such  kindred  bosoms  glow. 
Sweet  the  hour,  when,  freed  from  labor,  &c. 


48  THE    BALM    OF    THE    HEART. 


THE  BALM  OF  THE  HEART. 

When  the  mild  star  of  evening  invites  to  the 

bower, 
Where  music  and  mirth  are  to  revel  an  hour, 
Dismiss  gloomy  care,  and  bid  sorrow  depart, 
For  innocent  mirth  is  the  balm  of  the  heart. 

Every  pleasure  is  fleeting,  and  hastens  away, 
The  fairest  blown  rose  is  the  first  to  decay  ; 
Then  taste  of  its  fragrance  before  it  depart, 
For  innocent  mirth  is  the  balm  of  the  heart. 

Quickly  hasten  then  hither,  ye  youth  and  ye  fair, 
With  eyes  beaming  pleasure,  and  hearts  void  of 

care  ; 
Partake  of  the  joys  which  our  revels  impart, 
For  innocent  mirth  is  the  balm  of  the  heart- 


RVENING.  4  J 


EVENING. 

Tia  pleasant,  when  the  world  is  still, 

And  evening's  mantle  shrouds  the  vale, 
To  hear  the  pensive  whip-poor-will 

Pour  her  deep  notes  along  the  dale  ; 
While  through  the  self-taught  rustic's  flute 

Wild  warblings  wake  upon  the  gale, 
And  from  each  thicket,  marsh,  and  tree, 
The  cricket,  frog,  and  Katy-dee, 
With  various  notes  assist  the  glee, 

Nor  once  through  all  the  night  are  mute. 

The  streamlet  murmurs  o'er  its  bed, 

The  wanton  zephyrs  kiss  its  breast, 
Bid  the  green  bulrush  bend  its  head, 

And  sigh  through  groves  in  verdure  dressed  ; 
While  Cynthia,  from  her  silver  horn, 

Throws  magic  shades  o'er  evening's  vest ; 
Sheds  smiles  upon  the  brow  of  night, 
Xot  dazzling,  like  day's  shower  of  light, 
But  soft  as  dew,  which  mocks  the  sight 

Till  seen  to  sparkle  on  the  thorn. 
4 


50  I    LOVE    TO    HEAR. 


I  LOVE  TO  HEAR. 

I  love  to  hear  the  flute's  sweet  notes, 

On  zephyr's  balmy  pinion  borne  ; 
While  soft  the  melting  cadence  floats, 
And  sighing  echoes  wake  to  mourn. 
Stealing  on  the  raptured  ear, 
At  the  closing  hour  of  day, 
Wildly  warbling,  sweet  and  clear, 
Grateful  as  affection's  tear, 
Then  in  murmurs  die  away. 

I  love  to  hear,  when  blushing  morn 

First  tips  the  clouds  with  rosy  hue, 
The  new-waked  lark  salute  the  dawn, 
His  matin  song  of  praise  renew. 
Singing  as  he  skims  the  plain, 
Or  directs  his  flight  above  ; 
Waking  all  the  tuneful  train 
To  begin  the  sylvan  strain, 
Harmonizing  every  grove.' 

I  love  to  hear,  when  mid-day  heat 
With  listless  languor  fills  the  brain, 

Deep  in  some  shady,  cool  retreat, 
The  distant  waterfall  complain, 


YES    OK    NO.  51 

As  it  leaps  the  craggy  mound, 
Pouring  down  the  rocky  height, 

Foaming  o'er  the  pebbled  ground, 
While  it  sparkles  on  the  sight. 

But  when  with  her,  whose  image  dwells 

Within  my  glowing  breast,  I  stray, 
The  music  more  divinely  swells. 
The  lark  more  sweetly  tunes  his  lay  ; 
While  beneath  the  shade  we  rove, 

Murmuring  streamlets  sooth  the  ear, 
Through  the  calm  sequestered  grove, 
Echo  whispers  only  love  — 
Cupids  only  hover  near. 


YES  OR  NO. 

The  groves  their  vernal  sweets  have  lost, 

Xo  blossoms  now  perfume  the  gale, 
The  lawns  are  silvered  o'er  with  frost, 

And  autumn  lingers  in  the  vale. 
But  do  the  seasons,  as  they  roll, 

Affect  the  heart  with  joy  and  wo  ? 
Can  autumn  thus  depress  the  soul : 

Or  spring  elate  it?  —  Yes,  or  no  ? 


52  GOOD-MORNING. 

The  grove  again  shall  yield  its  shade, 

And  vernal  sweets  perfume  the  gale, 
The  modest  violet  deck  the  glade, 

And  richest  verdure  clothe  the  vale. 
But  will  the  flower  of  hope  survive, 

And  gain  from  spring  a  brighter  glow  ? 
A  smile,  sweet  maid,  would  bid  it  thrive, 

Wilt  thou  bestow  it  ?  —  Yes,  or  no  ? 


GOOD-MORNING. 

The  blushing  precursor  of  Phoebus  expands 

The  crystalline  portals  of  light, 
And  scatters  the  dew-dripping  tints  from  her 
hands 
To  crimson  the  mantle  of  night. 
Sleep  shakes  his  soft  pinions  and  soars  to  the  sky. 

With  rapture  I  greet  my  dear  Jane, 
Whose  health-glowing  visage  and  love-beaming 
eye 
Aurora  but  mimics  in  vain  — 

"  Good-morning !" 

Thy  presence  to  me  is  the  dawning  of  light, 
And  pleasure  illumines  my  breast ; 

But,  ah  !  in  thy  absence,  morn  changes  to  night — 
Hope  sinks  like  the  star  of  the  west. 


COMIC,    LET    US   TRIP   IT    LIGHTLY.  53 

Then  let  us,  my  fair  one,  the  moments  improve 
Which  morning  allows  us  for  bliss, 

Let  the  new-risen  day  be  devoted  to  love, 
And,  in  earnest,  accept  of  a  kiss  — 

"  Good-morning  !v 

When  evening  returns,  and  in  slumber  I  lie, 

Then  fancy  the  scene  shall  retrace  ; 
Shall  light  up  anew  the  soft  glance  of  thine  eye, 

And  restore  me  thy  blissful  embrace. 
And  when  through  the  lattice  Aurora's  tints  play, 

Oh  fly  to  the  arms  of  thy  swain, 
With  him  taste  the  sweets  of  the  infantile  day, 

And  hear  him  repeat,  on  the  plain  — 
"  (xood-mornino; !" 


COME,  LET  US  TRIP  IT  LIGHTLY. 

Come,  let  us  trip  it  lightly,  love, 

Where  Flora's  sweets  are  blending  ; 
The  moon  is  beaming  brightly,  love, 

With  starry  lamps  attending. 
The  grove  and  hill,  the  mead  and  rill, 

Have  charms  that  must  delight  thee, 
Then  let  us  haste  their  sweets  to  taste, 

While  zephyr's  sighs  invite  thee. 


54  COME,    LET    US    TRIP    IT    LIGHTLY. 

An  hour  like  this  imparts  a  bliss 
To  souls  of  kindred  feeling, 

A  pure  delight,  serenely  bright, 
Along  the  pulses  stealing. 

The  evening  star  is  peeping,  love, 

From  yonder  paler  cluster, 
The  glassy  lake  is  sleeping,  love, 

Enriched  with  borrowed  lustre. 
The  babbling  brook,  with  brighter  look, 

Meanders  through  the  dingle  ; 
And  chirping  notes  from  insect  throats, 

In  tuneless  measures  mingle. 
An  hour  like  this,  which  wakes  to  bliss, 

The  hearts  of  meaner  creatures, 
Must  surely  light  a  smile  as  bright 

On  love's  expressive  features. 


SENTIMENTAL. 


TO  MY  WIFE. 


Nay,  my  all  of  joy  that's  left, 

Droop  not  thus  in  gloom,  Lydia  ; 
Though  each  flower  of  hope  be  cleft, 

Other  buds  will  bloom,  Lydia ; 
Never  of  the  future  borrow  — 
Though  another  storm  of  sorrow 
Rifle  every  leaf  to-morrow 

From  the  thorny  stem,  Lydia, 
Let  us  with  unshaken  mind, 
Yield  such  toys,  and  be  resigned, 
And,  if  nought  but  thorns  we  find, 

Make  a  toy  of  them,  Lydia. 


56  TO    MY   WIFE. 

Fortune  must  be  blind  indeed, 

We  mistake  her  powers,  Lydia, 
Else  could  love  unheeded  plead  ? 

Faithful  love,  like  ours,  Lydia  ? 
Let  us,  then,  her  gifts  disdaining, 
Without  murmur,  or  complaining, 
Or  the  will  of  Heaven  arraigning, 

Fix  our  hopes  above,  Lydia  ; 
Though,  while  we  are  pilgrims  here, 
Poverty  may  press  severe, 
Yet  we  shall,  through  life,  my  dear, 
Still  be  rich  in  love,  Lydia, 

Droop  not,  dearest  —  God  is  kind 

When  he  seems  severe,  Lydia  ; 
Blessings  yet  remain  behind 

Which  we  hold  most  dear,  Lydia  : 
Innocence  the  soul's  best  treasure, 
Mutual  faith,  disdaining  measure, 
Love,  and  its  appendant  pleasure, 

What  can  these  destroy,  Lydia  ? 
These  are  our  —  with  these  endued, 
Nought  should  check  our  gratitude 
To  the  source  of  every  good 

Mortals  can  enjoy,  Lydia. 


THK    BTGTI,  57 


THE  SIGH. 

Softly  stealing  from  her  breast 
Ere  its  lovely  keeper  knew, 
Forth  a  sigh  emerging  flew  : 

I  received  the  trembling  guest, 
Thrilling  in  my  raptured  ear, 

Sinking  on  my  heart  to  rest, 
With  ecstatic  throbbings  dear. 

Ah  !  dear  Mary,  luckless  fair, 
You  perceived  its  flight  too  late  : 

Guard  such  tell-tale  rogues  with  care  ; 

For  the  tidings  which  they  bear 
Cast  the  color  of  our  fate. 

Think  you  what  it  told  my  heart  ? 

'T  was  the  messenger  of  peace, 

Bidding  every  doubt  to  cease, 
Every  sorrow  to  depart  ; 

'T  was  the  olive-bearing  dove 
Guiding  hope  into  the  ark  ; 

'T  was  the  harbinger  of  love, 
Flitting  from  that  warm  recess 

Where  thy  thoughts  in  secret  dwell  : 


58  A    SMILE    FROM    THEE. 

What  thy  lips  would  ne'er  confess, 
Though  thy  suppliant  sure  to  bless, 
This  sweet  fugitive  will  tell. 

Hark  !  it  whispers  to  my  heart  — 

"  Hope  alone  may  revel  here  ; 
Doubt  and  cold  distrust  depart. 

Hers  as  it  responsive  heaves, 
Shall  confess  the  urchin's  dart 

Rapture  with  the  anguish  leaves." 
Tell  me  not  I  dream  of  bliss, 

If  I  do,  still  let  me  sleep, 
Snatch  me  not  from  joy  like  this 
The  reality  to  miss  ; 

Never  make  a  wretch  to  weep. 


A  SMILE  FROM  THEE. 

A  smile  from  thee  would  banish  pain, 

And  bid  each  doubt  and  sorrow  flee, 
I  ask  but  this,  once  more  to  gain 

A  smile  from  thee. 
I  've  sought  thee  long,  with  fruitless  sighs, 

And  were  my  bright  reward  to  be 
A  tender  glance  from  those  soft  eyes, 

'T  were  heaven  to  me. 
A  smile  from  thee  would  banish  pain,  &c. 


j 


THE    WREATH    OF    LOVE.  59 

But  ah  !  if  doomed  no  more  to  meet, 

WhateVr  my  future  fate  may  be. 
This  faithful  heart  will  ever  beat 

With  love  for  thee. 
And  when  I  close  a  life  of  pain, 

The  gloomy  hour  of  death  will  be 
An  hour  of  bliss,  if  then  I  gain 

A  tear  from  thee. 
A  smile  from  thee  would  banish  pain,  &c. 


THE  WREATH  OF  LOVE. 

Let  Fame  her  wreath  for  others  twine, 
The  fragrant  wreath  of  love  be  mine, 

With  balm-distilling  blossoms  wove  ; 
Let  the  shrill  trumpet's  hoarse  alarms 
Bid  laurels  grace  the  victor's  arms, 

Where  havoc's  blood-stained  banners  move 
Be  mine  to  wake  the  softer  notes 
Where  Acidalia's  banner  floats, 

And  weave  the  gentler  wreath  of  love. 

The  balmy  rose  let  stoics  scorn, 
Let  squeamish  mortals  dread  the  thorn, 
And  fear  the  pleasing  pain  to  prove  ; 


60  THE    WREATH    OF    LOVE. 

I  '11  fearless  bind  it  to  my  heart, 
While  every  pang  its  thorns  impart 

The  floweret's  balsam  shall  remove  ; 
For,  sweetened  by  the  nectared  kiss, 
'T  is  pain  that  gives  a  zest  to  bliss, 

And  freshens  still  the  wreath  of  love. 

Give  me  contentment,  peace,  and  health, 
A  moderate  share  of  worldly  wealth, 

And  friends  such  blessings  to  improve  ; 
A  heart  to  give  when  misery  pleads, 
To  heal  or  bind  each  wound  that  bleeds, 

And  every  mental  pain  remove  ; 
But  with  these  give  —  else  all  deny  — 
The  fair  for  whom  I  breathe  the  sigh, 

And  wedlock  be  a  wreath  of  love. 

Connubial  bliss,  unknown  to  strife, 
A  faithful  friend  —  a  virtuous  wife, 

Be  mine  for  many  years  to  prove  : 
Our  wishes  one,  within  each  breast 
The  dove  of  peace  shall  make  her  nest, 

Nor  ever  from  the  ark  remove  ; 
Till  called  to  heaven  ;  through  ages  there 
Be  ours  the  blissful  lot  to  wear 

A  never-fading  wreath  of  love. 


love's  lboer.  61 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

That  tranquil  brow,  and  pensive  eye, 

Those  parted  lips  of  ruby  dye ; 

Each  grace  that  life  and  reason  give, 

Is  kindling  here,  and  seems  to  live ! 

A  playful  smile  illumes  the  cheek ! 

Those  rubies  move  ! — 't  will  speak  ! — 't  will  speak  ! 

T  was  fancy  all  !  —  That  senseless  bone 
Could  ne'er  be  taught  her  dulcet  tone  ; 
No  art  can  teach  that  eye  to  move, 
Those  ruby  lips  are  dead  to  love. 
Illusive  dream  !  —  too  soon  it  flies, 
The  vision  fades  !  —  it  dies !  —  it  dies ! 


LOVE'S  LEGER. 

I  own  myself  your  debtor,  love, 

For  't  is  to  you  my  bliss  I  owe, 
Then  say  if  I'd  not  better,  love, 

Repay  the  balance  kiss  I  owe  ? 
In  justice  you  Tl  receipt  it,  love, 

And  prove  that  you  are  true  to  me 
If  I  should  then  repeat  it,  love, 

There  '11  be  a  balance  due  to  me 


62  love's  legkr. 

That  little  urchin  Cupid,  love, 

The  only  clerk  we  keep,  you  know, 
Is  either  blind  or  stupid,  love, 

And  apt  to  fall  asleep,  you  know. 
'Tis  best,  then,  thus  to  jog  him,  love, 

And  make  him  earn  his  pay,  you  know  ; 
For,  should  we  chide  or  flog  him,  love, 

The  boy  might  run  away,  you  know. 

The  rogue  possesses  talents,  love, 

His  pinions  furnish  quills,  you  know, 
And  wiien  he  strikes  a  balance,  love, 

He  must  inspect  our  bills,  you  know. 
Then  let  us  ne'er  dispute,  my  love, 

While  Time  enjoyment  rifles  so, 
But  take  a  kiss  to  boot,  my  love, 

I  can  not  stand  on  trifles  so. 

Short  reck'nings  make  long  friends,  my  love, 

Accounts  should  ne'er  be  running  so, 
Then  let  us  make  amends,  my  love, 

For  'tis  unpleasant  dunning  so. 
Through  life's  allotted  term,  my  love, 

If  thus  we  do  n't  forget  we  owe, 
When  death  dissolves  the  firm,  my  love, 

We  '11  pay  the  only  debt  wre  owe. 


TO    SOMEBODY.  63 


TO  SOMEBODY. 

Oh  I  shall  ne'er  forget  the  spot 

Where  smiles  of  joy  were  wont  to  greet  me, 
Where  ardent  hearts  dissembled  not, 

But  bounded  with  delight  to  meet  me. 
Though  rugged  winter  held  his  sway, 

And  all  without  was  cold  and  dreary, 
Yet,  warmed  by  beauty's  melting  ray, 

I  thought  the  season  bright  and  cheery. 

But  doomed,  alas !  too  soon  to  part, 

And  wander  far  from  love  and  beauty, 
I  felt  a  winter  in  my  heart, 

And  cheerless  seemed  the  path  of  duty. 
I  dragged  along  the  heavy  way 

A  lengthened  chain  that  make  me  weary, 
While  Hope  refused  one  glimmering  ray 

To  light  a  scene  so  dark  and  dreary. 

But  see !  at  length  stern  winter  flies, 
A  brighter  season  glows  before  me, 

The  summer  radiance  of  those  eyes 
Shall  yet  to  life  and  joy  restore  me. 


64  THE    GARLAND. 

Till  then,  let  retrospection  feed 

The  flame  which  smiling  hope  should  cherish, 
For,  oh !  how  this  poor  heart  would  bleed, 

Should  thine  permit  that  flame  to  perish. 


THE  GARLAND. 

I  would  a  garland  twine,  my  love, 

But  nature's  flowers  decay, 
And  ah  !  that  brow  of  thine,  my  love, 

Deserves  a  fadeless  bay. 
But  song  shall  crown  thee,  listen ! 

And  let  those  eyes  of  fire 
With  approbation  glisten, 

Thy  minstrel  to  inspire. 

'T  is  not  exterior  charms,  my  love, 

That  faultless  shape  and  face, 
Those  pearly  polished  arms,  my  love, 

That  air  of  witching  grace  — 
But  't  is  those  mental  treasures, 

Which  few,  alas  !  can  claim, 
By  which  the  poet  measures 

Thy  beauty,  wit,  and  fame. 

Time  dims  the  brightest  eye,  my  love, 
That  form  will  lose  its  grace, 


TO    A    NOSEGAY.  65 

That  check  its  vermeil  dye,  my  love, 

And  age  will  mark  the  face  ; 
But  virtue,  love,  and  duty, 

Retain  immortal  bloom, 
Survive  the  wreck  of  beauty, 

And  decorate  her  tomb. 


TO  A  NOSEGAY. 

Little  pledge  of  fond  remembrance, 
Though  thy  tints  so  quickly  flee, 

Still  the  lovely  donor's  semblance 
I  can  sweetly  trace  in  thee. 

Here  the  rose  and  lily,  twining, 
Her  enchanting  face  bespeak  ; 

For  the  fairest  hues,  combining, 
Bloom  upon  her  lovely  cheek 

In  this  blushing  pink  whicfc  decked  her, 
Glows  an  emblem  of  Ler  lip, 

Both  distilling  balmy  nectar, 
Both  inviting  mine  to  sip. 

In  this  violet  I  discover 

Her  sweet  eye's  cerulean  hue, 
5 


66  fO    A    NOSEGAY. 

Like  the  brightest  star,  above  her, 
Sparkling  in  etherial  blue. 

When  within  my  bounding  bosom 
Mary  placed  ye,  thus  entwined, 

Sweetly  whispering,  "  do  not  lose  'em,'' 
Then  what  rapture  filled  my  mind ! 

But  tyrannic  Time  is  dooming 
All  your  lovely  tints  to  fade  ; 

When  you  are  no  longer  blooming, 
Can  I  longer  trace  the  maid  ? 

Yes,  when  all  your  tints  have  faded, 
Fragrance  still  you  will  retain  ; 

Though  your  beauties  be  degraded, 
Charms  internal  will  remain. 

Such  is  Mary  —  youth  is  passing  — 

All  her  beauties  must  decay, 
But  her  mind  is  still  amassing 
Charms  to  live  an  endless  day. 


LOVE    AND    JEALOUSY.  67 


PEACEFUL  HOME. 

The  heart  sustained  by  hope  alone, 
The  pains  of  absence  may  endure, 

But,  ah  !  when  even  hope  is  flown, 
Its  sorrow  has  no  cure. 

'Tis  then  we  sigh,  where'er  we  roam, 

For  our  maternal,  peaceful  home. 

Though  mourning  like  a  mateless  dove, 
The  languid  heart  be  doomed  to  beat, 

It  can  not,  will  not,  cease  to  love, 
It  finds  the  pain  so  sweet ; 

Yet  heaves  a  sigh,  where'er  we  roam, 

For  our  maternal,  peaceful  home. 


LOVE  AND  JEALOUSY. 

When  infant  Cupid  ventured  first 

To  spread  his  purple  wing, 
It  chanced  he  stopped,  to  slake  his  thirst, 

At  the  Pierian  spring  ; 


68       MUSIC  THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LOVE. 

When,  rising  from  the  crystal  stream, 

A  monster  caught  his  eye, 
Poor  Cupid  started  with  a  scream, 

But  strove  in  vain  to  fly. 

To  slay  the  little  winged  boy 

The  demon  vainly  strove, 
His  fangs  could  wound,  but  not  destroy, 

The  son  of  peerless  Jove. 
He  follows  still  —  (they  never  part) 

But  vainly  vents  his  ire  ; 
Though  jealous  tortures  wring  the  heart, 

Yet  ne'er  can  love  expire. 


MUSIC  THE  LANGUAGE  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  Love  can  discourse  independent  of  eyes, 
The  pressure  of  hands,  or  the  breathing  of  sighs  ; 
Attend,  then,  its  accents,  and  deign  to  approve, 
For  music,  dear  girl,  is  the  language  of  love. 

?T  is  true  that  the  eyes  and  the  lips  may  impart 
A  counterfeit  sentiment,  tutored  by  art ; 
But  nought  can  the  pulses  of  sympathy  move 
Like  music,  for  that  is  the  language  of  love. 


I    LOVE    ONLY    THEE.  69 

The  tone  of  affection  is  framed  in  the  soul, 
'Tis  spirit,  unfettered  by  matter's  control; 
For  what  is  the  language  of  seraphs  above, 
But  music  ? — and  there  't  is  the  language  of  love. 

Then  doubt,  dearest  maiden,  professions  and  sighs, 
The  glow  of  the  hand,  the  expression  of  eyes ; 
But  doubt  not  the  souPs  aspirations,  which  prove, 
That  music  is  still  the  true  language  of  love. 


I  LOVE  ONLY  THEE. 

Believe  not  the  slanders  that  envy  may  frame, 

But  confess,  when  the  past  you  review, 
That  though  malice  my  couple  reproach  with  his 
name, 

Dear  Mary,  thy  Edwin  is  true. 
I  will  own  that  my  heart  nutters  gayly,  awhile, 

For  every  fair  face  that  I  see  ; 
But  though  ever  delighted  with  woman's  sweet 
smile, 

I  love,  dearly  love,  only  thee. 

Repine  not  that  festival  joys  may  detain 
Thy  lover  awhile  from  thy  arms ; 


70  love's  eyes. 

For  with  each  sparkling  goblet  he  ventures  to 
drain, 
He  whispers  a  toast  to  thy  charms. 
I  will  own  that,  when  friendship  and  evening  in- 
vite, 
I  join  in  such  revels  with  glee  ; 
But  thy  smile  can  alone  give  me  perfect  delight, 
For  I  love,  dearly  love,  only  thee. 


LOVE'S  EYES. 

Love's  eyes  are  so  enchanting, 
Bright,  smiling,  soft,  and  granting, 
Pulses  play 
At  every  ray, 
And  hearts  at  every  glance  are  panting. 
Before  the  beamy  eye  of  morn, 

We  view  the  shades  of  night  receding, 
So  tender  glances  banish  scorn, 

For  who  can  frown  while  love  is  pleading  ? 
Love's  eyes  are  so  enchanting,  &c. 

No  bandage  can  those  eyes  conceal, 

Though  bards  in  fabled  tales  rehearse  it ; 

For  if  he  wore  a  mask  of  steel, 

Affection's  ardent  gaze  would  pierce  it. 
Love's  eyes  are  so  enchanting,  &c. 


LOVE    AND    VALOR,  71 

Beware,  then,  lest  some  artful  elf 

The  infant's  smiles  and  armor  borrow, 
To  win  a  throb  of  joy  for  self, 

And  give  his  victim  years  of  sorrow. 
Love's  eyes  are  so  enchanting, 
Bright,  smiling,  soft,  and  granting, 
Pulses  play 
At  every  ray, 
And  hearts  at  every  glance  are  panting. 


LOVE  AND  VALOR. 

Sounds  of  war  were  swelling  wild, 

Fearful  notes  the  bugle  blew  ; 
Infant  Love,  a  timid  child, 

Trembled  at  the  rat-tat-too. 
But  inspired  by  Valor's  breath, 

Love  with  war  familiar  grew, 
Fearless  view  the  strife  of  death, 

Smiled  to  hear  the  rat-tat-too. 

Swift  a  shaft  at  Valor's  heart 
From  the  infant's  bow-string  flew 

Valor  heeded  not  the  dart, 
List'ning  to  the  rat-tat-too. 


72  A    KISS. 

Yet  that  dart  was  tipped  with  red, 
Ella's  heart-blood  lent  the  hue  ; 

But  iu  vain  had  Ella  bled, 
Yalor  loved  the  rat-tat-too. 

Through  the  camp  the  infant  strayed, 

Hope  receding  now  from  view  ; 
Secret  griefs  his  sighs  betrayed, 

Mingling  with  the  rat-tat-too. 
Yalor  will  not  yield  to  Love, 

Hope  to  Ella  bids  adieu  ; 
Sad,  desponding,  widowed  dove, 

Listless  to  the  rat-tat-too. 


A  KISS. 

Does  Eliza  remember,  ere  fashion  had  taught  her 
To  lend  the  heart's  impulse  hypocrisy's  guise, 

How  oft,  in  our  plays,  to  my  bosom  I  caught  her, 
And  wondered  a  touch  could  so  brighten  the 
eyes  ? 

Familiar  to  me  is  the  sweet  recollection, 

I  well  can  remember  the  thrill  and  the  glow, 

The  flush  and  the  smile  that  illumed  her  com- 
plexion, 
Like  the  first  ray  of  morning  reflected  on  snow. 


GIVING    AND    RECEIVING.  73 

And  I  asked  what  it  was  that  the  senses  thus 
raptured, 
And  bade  through  my  pulses  such  ecstacies  roll, 
The  charm  which  reflection  bewildered  and  cap- 
tured — 
A  kiss  was  the  answer  —  it  melted  my  soul. 


GIVING  AND  RECEIVING. 

The  suppliant  departed,  while  gratitude's  tear 
In  his  joy-beaming  eye  was  suspended ; 

My  heart  bounded  light,  for  my  Lydia  was  near, 
Who  thus  the  donation  commended  : 

"  The  bosom  which  softens  at  Misery's  wound, 
And  proffers  the  balsam  to  heal  him, 

With  the  glow  of  contentment  must  joyfully  bound, 
And  such  is  the  breast  of  my  Selirn." 

"  But  which/7 1  exclaimed,  as  the  fair  one  I  pressed, 
While  her  eye  with  affection  was  brightened, 

u  Receiver,  or  donor,  which  think  you  most  blest  ? 
Whose  joy  by  the  action  most  heightened  ?" 

"The  being,"  she  answered,  "you saved  from  de- 
spair, 
Who  tastes,  by  the  sudden  reversion, 


74  TO    MARIA. 

Of  exquisite  bliss  a  porportionate  share, 
To  the  depth  of  his  recent  immersion." 

Her  answer  was  sweetened  with  love's  nectared 
kiss, 
And  my  breast  with  the  transport  was  heaving, 
As  I  owned,  with  a  sigh,  that  though  giving  was 
bliss, 
It  was  faint  to  the  joy  of  receiving. 


TO  MARIA. 

Awake  again  thy  witching  lyre, 
Its  tones  have  slept  too  long  ; 

But  thy  sweet  touches,  dear  Maria, 

Can  call  a  spirit  from  the  wire, 

With  eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  fire  — 
Oh  wake  him  into  song. 

Why  should  the  sweetest  gift  of  Jove 

In  useless  silence  lie, 
When  thou  canst  make  it  speak  and  move, 
To  charm  our  grief,  inspire  our  love, 
And  raise  our  thoughts  to  things  above, 

Why,  sweet  Maria  —  why  ? 


AND    DID    I    UPBRAID    YOU?  75 

Why  brood  o'er  past  affliction's  smart, 

With  sad  and  tearful  eye, 
When  thine  is  the  bewitching  art, 
The  sweetest  rapture  to  impart, 
And  kindle  joy  in  every  heart, 

Why,  loved  Maria  —  why  ? 


AND  DID  I  UPBRAID  YOU  ? 

And  did  I  upbraid  you,  my  love  ? 

Oh  pardon  a  fault  I  deplore  ; 
For  while  you  thus  sweetly  reprove, 

I  feel  I  can  never  doubt  more. 
Xo  —  no  —  no  —  I  shall  never  doubt  you  more. 

I  own  I  suspected  your  truth, 

And  envied  a  rival's  success  ; 
For  jealousy  pictured  a  youth 

Whom  pity  would  prompt  you  to  bless. 
Whom  pity  —  pity  —  pity  would  prompt  you  to 

bless. 

And  did  I  upbraid  you,  my  love  ? 

Oh  pardon  a  fault  I  deplore  ; 
For  while  you  thus  sweetly  reprove, 

I  feel  I  can  never  doubt  more. 
No — no  —  no —  I  shall  never  doubt  vou  more. 


76  NATURE    AND    THE    PASSIONS. 

My  doubts  I  now  give  to  the  wind, 

For  Mary  is  constant  and  fair, 
Though  lately  I  thought  her  unkind, 
And  gave  myself  up  to  despair. 
Despair  —  despair  — despair  —  and  gave  myself 
up  to  despair. 

And  did  I  upbraid  you,  my  love  ? 

Oh  pardon  a  fault  I  deplore  ; 
For  while  you  thus  sweetly  reprove, 

I  feel  I  can  never  doubt  more, 
No  —  no  —  no  —  I  shall  never  doubt  you  more. 


NATURE  AND  THE  PASSIONS. 

The  stranger  awoke,  and  with  wonder  surveyed 
The  unexplored   regions   on   which    she   was 
thrown  : 

Rude  Chaos  the  scene  —  and  the  infantile  maid 
Was  Nature,  just  risen  from  sources  unknown. 

Her  form,  the  fair  abstract  of  Infinite  thought, 
The  unblemished  model  of  harmony  moved  ; 

Her  accents  the  spirit  of  melody  taught, 

Her  smile  was   celestial  —  and    Heaven   ap- 
proved. 


NATURE    AND   THE    PASSIONS.  /  7 

But  scarce  could  the  infant  existence  admire, 
When  hosts  of  rude  demons  encountered  the 
child, 
Revenge  and  rough  Anger,  with  optics  of  fire, 
And  frenzy-struck  Terror,   shrieked   horribly 
wild. 

Attended  by  Rapine,  fell  Murder  appeared, 
Led  onward  by  Avarice,  Malice,  and  Hate  ; 

Their  snaky  crests  Envy  and  Jealousy  reared, 
As  blood-stained  Ambition  tore  laurels  from 
fate. 

This  phalanx  of  fiends,  with  Despair  in  their  trail!, 
With  scourges  of  scorpions  the  infant  assailed, 

And  pitiless  heard  the  sweet  stranger  complain, 
Deep  deluged  in  sorrow  which  nothing  availed. 

Compassion  beheld  —  and  to  regions  above, 
In  the  incense  of  sighs,  her  petition  conveyed  ; 

Infinity  heard,  and  the  answer  was  —  love, 
Who  came  in  the  garb  of  an  angel  arrayed. 

Her  presence  made  cruel  Ambition  depart, 
Hate,  Murder,  and  Rapine,  the  goddess  con- 
fessed ; 

Her  touch  palsied  Malice,  and  blunted  his  dart, 
And  even  lank  Avarice  opened  his  breast. 


78  I    HAD    A    LYRE. 

She  spoke  —  and  Revenge  was  subdued  by  the 
charm  ; 
She  smiled  —  and  the  scene  was  deserted  by 
Fear  ; 
She  sighed  —  aud  pale  Jealousy  fled  with  alarm  ; 
She  wept  —  and  rough  Anger  dissolved  in  the 
tear. 

Her  magic  the  vulture  transformed  to  a  dove, 
And  Xature  again  was  delighted  and  blest  — 

Thus  each  ruder  passion  is  subject  to  Love, 
The  genius  that  tempers  and  governs  the  rest. 


I  HAD  A  LYRE. 

I  had  a  lyre  when  hope  was  young. 

But  't  was  the  plaything  of  a  child ; 
Of  love  I  then  delighted  sung, 

And  swept  its  chords  with  transport  wild. 

But  now  its  tones  I  can  not  swell, 
Its  spirit  and  its  voice  have  fled, 

That  lyre  is  but  a  tuneless  shell, 

For  I  have  sold  its  chords  for  bread. 


THE    MEETING.  79 


THE  MEETING. 

I  saw  them  meet  —  the  pangs  of  absence  o'er, 
And  Memory  holds  a  picture  of  the  place  : 

'T  was  at  the  threshold  of  her  cottage  door, 
Eliza  met  her  husband's  warm  embrace. 

How  animated  shone  her  eager  eye, 

Where  joy's  delicious  tear  suspended  hung  ! 

Her  bosom  heaved — but  pleasure  raised  the  sigh 
Her  voice  was  mute  —  but  bliss  had  sealed  he: 
tongue. 

Pressed  in  his  arms,  the  chaste  connubial  kiss 
Her  ruby  lips  by  turns  received  and  gave  ; 

Then,  as  ashamed  of  the  excessive  bliss, 
Affection's  blush  she  bids  his  bosom  save. 

But  recollection  whispered  yet  a  joy 

'T  was  hers  to  give  ;  and  from  the  trance  she 
starts, 
Puts  in  his  arms  their  little  infant  boy, 

Love's  precious  pledge,  that  closer  binds  their 
hearts. 


80  A    DREAM. 

While  round  their  sire  the  elder  prattlers  cling  ; 

Beg  for  a  kiss  ;  their  little  tales  recite  ; 
Each  emulous  some  trifling  boon  to  bring, 

And  share  their  parents7  unalloyed  delight. 

Forgotten  now  is  separation's  smart, 
Or  but  remembered  as  the  zest  of  joy ; 

Her  smiles  are  sunshine  to  his  gladdened  heart, 
Which  love-created  fears  no  more  annoy. 

So,  wrapped  in  night,  the  lonely  pilgrim  views 
Aurora,  blushing,  throw  her  veil  aside  ; 

And,  filled  with  joy,  his  lighted  path  pursues, 
Whence  erst  bewildered  he  had  wandered  wide. 

And  is  it  joy  that  fills  my  eye?  I  cried  — 
Ah,  no !  —  regret,  that  such  was  not  my  lot  ; 

But  yet  to  envy  ?t  was  so  near  allied, 

I  blushed  —  and  sighing,  left  the  happy  spot. 


A  DREAM. 

Oh  stay,  sweet  vision !  lovely  phantom,  stay  ! 

And  longer  bless  me  with  thy  mimic  show  : 
Ah  !  fade  not  thus  to  empty  air  away, 

And  leave  a  wretch  awake  to  real  wo. 


TOE    SMILE    OF    LOVE.  81 

And  did  I  dream  ?    Oil !  'twas  a  dream  so  sweet, 
So  full  of  bliss,  that  heaven  had  lost  its  charms  ; 

And  I  embraced  the  dear  delusive  cheat, 

Then  woke,  and  found  despair  within  my  arms. 

Joy's  sparkling  goblet  seems  to  overflow, 

Her  banquet  now  with  tempting   sweets  ap- 
pears ; 

But,  ah !  I  wake  to  cjuaff  the  cup  of  wo, 
Drink  deep  of  grief,  and  feast  upon  my  tears. 


THE  SMILE  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  there 's  a  light  whose  effulgence  can  brighten 

Griefs  gloomy  aspect  with  sparkles  of  joy, 
Chase  from  the  heart  which  its  splendors  enlighten 

Each  sombre  care  that  presumes  to  annoy. 
Pure  are  its  rays,  as  the  dawn's  first  reflection, 
Grateful  as  sunbeams  when  tempests  are  o'er, 
Oh  't  is  the  smile  of  an  artless  affection, 
Beaming  from  eyes  and  a  heart  we  adore. 
Dark  fate  may  vainly  lower, 
O'er  hope's  enamelled  bower, 
The  smile  of  affection  each  cloud  will  remove, 
That  warm  celestial  ray  melts  cloudy  care  away, 
Earth  has  no  charm  like  the  sweet  smile  of  love. 
6 


82  I    HEARD    A    SWEET    STRAIN. 

While  through  this  life's  dusky  vale  we  are  stray- 
ing, 
Pressed  by  misfortune,  and  harassed  by  fears, 
Sighing  o'er  pictures  of  fancy,  decaying  — 

Sprinkling  our  pathway  wTith  unheeded  tears, 
Be  but  the  lustre  of  love's  radiations 

Shed  o'er  the  scene,  and  its  terrors  will  cease, 
Sighs  will  be  changed  into  joy's  aspirations, 
Tears  be  converted  to  dew-drops  of  peace. 
Bright  beam  of  heavenly  bliss  ! 
Earth  has  no  charm  like  this, 
'T  is  the  reflection  of  light  from  above  : 
When  first  we  feel  the  ray,  how  sweet  the  pulses 
play! 
Earth  has  no  charm  like  the  sweet  smile  of  love. 


I  HEARD  A  SWEET  STRAIN. 

I  heard  a  sweet  strain  in  the  grove, 

And  listened  with  breathless  delight : 
"  As  pensive  I  thought  on  my  love, 

"  The  moon  on  the  mountain  shone  bright.' 
When  torn  from  the  arms  of  her  swain, 

In  circles  of  splendor  to  move, 
Sweet  Fatima  thus  would  complain, 

As  pensive  she  thought  on  her  love. 


HARRIET'S" FAVORITE    POEMS.  83 

A  palace  for  her  had  no  charms, 

Unshared  by  the  youth  she  adored  ; 
But  pressed  in  her  loved  Selim's  arms, 

A  cottage  true  bliss  could  afford. 
Then  should  fickle  Fortune  ordain, 

Your  Selim  from  hence  to  remove, 
Will  you,  while  you  warble  that  strain, 

Bestow  a  fond  thought  on  your  love  ? 

Some  seraph  will  waft  me  the  sound, 

And  whisper  the  joy  to  my  heart  ; 
Though  absence  must  cruelly  wound, 

I  '11  listen,  forgetting  its  smart. 
Then  grant  that  such  joy  I  may  find, 

Should  fate  ever  tear  me  from  thee  ; 
For  me  let  the  strain  be  designed  — 

Be  Fatima  only  to  me. 


HARRIET'S  FAVORITE  POEMS. 

When  I  survey  my  Harriet's  speaking  face, 
The  smiles  that  light,  the  tears  that  fill  her  eyes, 

The  frown  of  anger,  or  the  rose's  grace, 
I  view  the  Seasons  in  succession  rise. 

When  a  glance  of  affection  her  optics  impart, 

The  Pleasures  of  Hope  are  alive  in  my  heart. 


84  HARRIET'S    FAVORITE    POEMS. 

Lost  in  the  theme,  while  bending  o'er  her  lyre, 
She  wakes  the  tones  which  fascinate  the  soul, 

I  view  the  Minstrd  that  I  most  admire, 
And  list  in  rapture  while  her  numbers  roll. 

When,  absent,  I  yield  to  reflection's  sweet  power, 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory  shorten  the  hour. 

If  she,  with  fondness,  chide  my  ardent  kiss, 
And,  with  a  soft'ning  smile,  forbearance  ask, 

Or  bid  me,  with  a  frown,  forego  the  bliss, 
I  bow  submission,  but  neglect  the  Task. 

For  should  she  condemn  me  the  bliss  to  forego, 

In  the  Grave  would  I  seek  for  an  end  of  my  wo. 

When  Fancy  through  her  own  creation  strays, 
To  promised  joy  delighting  still  to  cling, 

From  her  alone,  my  glowing  bosom  says, 
The  Pleasures  of  Imagination  spring. 

But  when  Curiosity  rises  to  vex, 

Then  Paradise  Lost  I  impute  to  the  sex. 

I  told  her  thus  —  when,  in  her  snowy  arms, 
My  yielding  form  the  angel  gently  strained. 

And  I,  bewildered  with  a  maze  of  charms, 
Sighed  in  her  ear  —  't  is  Paradise  Regained ! 

Retired  from  elysium,  the  scene  to  retrace, 

My  Night  Thoughts  re-pictured  the  tender  em- 
brace. 


MABELLA.  85 


MABELLA. 

The  world  is  no  longer  the  desert  I  deemed  it, 

While  clouds  of  affliction  had  veiled  it  in  gloom, 
For  the  promise  of  Hope  —  though  I  lightly  es- 
teemed it, 
For  once  has  been  faithful,  and  dressed  it  in 
bloom. 
The  eye  of  pure  friendship  is  lighted  to  bless  me, 
And  Love  —  Oh  the  truest  of  hearts  is  my  own  ; 
E'en  Fame  grows  propitious,  and  deigns  to  caress 
me, 
All  smile  on  the  minstrel,  but  Fortune  alone. 

Pure  friendship  —  it  beams  from  the  eye  of  Gla- 
bella, 

The  angel  of  mercy,  and  daughter  of  song  ; 
It  lights  up  a  zenith  so  brilliantly  stellar, 

I  spurn  the  dull  planet  to  which  I  belong. 
But,  ah  !  should  a  cloud  rise  again  to  obscure  it, 

Exhaled  in  the  malice  of  Calumny's  breath, 
The  sensitive  pulse  of  my  heart  would  endure  it 

A  moment  —  and  then  find  a  refuge  in  death. 


86  THE    VOYAGE    OF    LIFE. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 

Embarked  on  the  ocean  of  life, 

I  steered  for  the  haven  of  bliss  ; 
But  through  passion's  tempestuous  strife, 

My  reckoning  was  ever  a-miss. 
Near  Pleasure's  enchanted  domain 

I  plunged  in  a  whirlpool  of  care, 
Encountered  the  breakers  of  pain, 

And  struck  on  the  rocks  of  despair. 

Afloat  and  refitted  once  more, 

The  chart  of  experience  my  guide, 
Hope  points  to  the  far-distant  shore, 

Her  smile  bids  the  tempest  subside. 
No  breakers  or  quicksands  I  fear, 

While  Honor  stands  firm  at  the  helm  ; 
By  the  compass  of  reason  I  '11  steer 

To  Joy's  delectable  realm. 

Stern  Yirtue  the  port  may  blockade, 
Yet  Hymen  will  sanction  my  right, 

And  his  torch,  like  a  j)liaros,  shall  aid 
To  moor  in  the  stream  of  delight. 


THE    GAMUT.  87 

Then,  then,  may  the  genius  of  Love 

An  eternal  embargo  declare  ; 
I  '11  never  evade  it,  by  Jove  ! 

Nor  traffic  in  contraband  ware. 


THE  GAMUT. 

The  demon  care  constrained  to  smile, 

When  matchless  Ida  sings, 
Repents  that  he  my  lyre  should  spoil, 

And  gives  me  back  its  striugs  ; 
So  Orpheus'  lay  (as  poets  dreamed) 

With  like  resistless  spell, 
Subdued  the  Fates,  and  thus  redeemed 

Eurydice  from  hell. 

Once  more  I  '11  tune  this  shell  so  dear, 

And  stretch  its  wires  again, 
Till  A  awake  with  accents  clear, 

And  breathing  B  complain. 
The  C  shall  sound  serene  and  free, 

The  D  with  danger  toy, 
While  fiery,  wild,  erratic  E, 

Shall  light  the  torch  of  joy. 

The  F  give  love  and  feeling  scope, 
But  G  with  grief  shall  wail, 


88  TO    HARRIET. 

For  H,  the  aspirate  of  hope, 
Comes  not  within  the  scale. 

'Tis  done  !  —  my  lyre  shall  wake  again, 
While  lovely  Ida  sings, 

For  't  was  her  sweet  resistless  strain 
Redeemed  the  minstrel's  strings. 


TO  HARRIET. 

I  owx  I  chid  the  plaintive  strain, 
Nor  wished  the  muse  to  weep  ; 

But  I  recall  a  thought  so  vain, 
If  Harriet's  lyre  must  sleep. 

What  though  its  tones  are  sorrow's  sighs, 
T  is  bliss  those  tones  to  hear ; 

And  should  they  drown  the  listener's  eyes, 

They  still  would  charm  his  ear. 

Then,  Harriet,  tune  thy  "  simple  lyre," 

And  sing  of  blessings  fled, 
While  such  ecstatic  joys  its  wire 

On  other  hearts  can  shed. 
Yes,  still  with  sorrow's  lay  alarm, 

Be  Penserosa  still, 
For  if  thy  tones  of  grief  thus  charm, 

Thy  notes  of  joy  would  kill. 


AND   MAY    I    HOPE?  89 


AND  MAY  I  HOPE  ? 

And  may  I  hope  ?  thou  kind  one,  oh ! 

Can  joy  so  great  be  mine  ? 
I  'd  pass  a  thousand  years  of  wo, 
Nor  think  the  minutes  travelled  slow, 

Might  I,  at  last,  be  thine. 

And  may  I  hope  ?  —  What  rapture  waits 

On  that  auspicious  word ! 
Now  do  your  worst,  ye  envious  fates, 
The  sentence  which  my  soul  elates, 

Attesting  angels  heard. 

And  may  I  hope  ?  —  Then  I  am  blest, 

That  word  expels  despair, 
Removes  each  sorrow  from  my  breast, 
With  every  doubt  that  dare  molest, 

And  plants  an  Eden  there. 

And  may  I  hope  ?  —  Then  fancy  may 

Foretaste  the  nuptial  kiss, 
In  promised  rapture  revel  gay, 
An  antepast  of  that  sweet  day, 

Which  consummates  my  bliss. 


90  TO    CAROLINE. 


TO  CAROLINE. 

Though  thousand  gems,  of  dazzling  ray, 
Will  glow  and  sparkle  through  the  day, 
The  diamond  only  has  the  power 
To  shine  in  midnight's  darkest  hour  ; 
So  hearts  that  bask  in  beauty's  smile, 
With  borrowed  ray  may  glow  awhile, 
But  mine,  dear  girl,  is  warm  and  bright, 
Though  absence  shroud  the  gem  in  night. 

Yes,  absence  is  affection's  test, 
I  feel  the  truth  within  my  breast ; 
For  every  hour  and  every  mile, 
That  bars  me  from  thy  cheering  smile, 
Imparts  new  ardor  to  the  flame, 
That  warms  and  animates  my  frame  ; 
But  ere  it  too  intensely  burn, 
In  pity,  love,  return  !  — return. 


WE    ARE    OXE.  91 


WE  ARE  ONE. 

Oh,  we  are  one,  and  who  presumes 

To  sever  hearts  like  ours, 
Would  scatter  frosts  where  Eden  blooms, 

And  wither  all  its  flowers  ; 
But  should  no  bands  unite  our  hands, 

Till  weary  life  be  done, 
The  ties  which  join  this  heart  to  thine, 

Will  ever  make  us  one. 

Yes,  pride  and  rank  may  sever  hands, 

But  can  not  change  the  heart, 
Nor  polar  snows,  nor  Afric's  sands, 

Congenial  spirits  part. 
Our  souls  shall  meet,  in  union  sweet, 

Though  seas  between  us  run, 
Till  pride  relents,  and  fate  consents, 

To  make  us  truly  one. 


RETURNING   HOME. 


RETURNING  HOME. 

No  longer  shall  fortune  be  whelmed  with  invec- 
tive, 
If  my  journey  the  goddess  but  bless  with  her 
smile  ; 
I  heed  not  its  length,  while  I  view  in  perspective 
The  sharer,  rewarder,  and  end  of  my  toil. 

Ah !  still  on  my  vision  the  object  increases ! 

The  cottage  of  peace  and  affection  I  spy  ! 
Hope  smiles,  as  my  bosom,  unconscious,  releases 

The  murmur  of  wishes  respired  in  a  sigh. 

Now,  now  I  am  blest !  —  But,  ah  !  language  it 
fails  me, 
No  pencil  can  paint  love's  ecstatic  alarms  : 
'Tis  she  that  approaches — 'tis  Catharine  hails 
me, 
She  gazes !  she  smiles  !  —  I  am  pressed  in  her 
arms. 


BANKRUPTCY    OF   THE    HEART.  93 


BANKRUPTCY  OF  THE  HEART. 

Let  infamy  cover  the  dastard,  that  meanly 

Can  sport  with  the  peace  of  an  innocent  maid, 
For  there  is  no  pang  which  the  heart  feels  so 
keenly 
As  finding  its  confidence  basely  betrayed. 
No  power  can  retrive  such  a  wide  desolation, 
As  spreads  o'er  the  face  of  the  mental  creation, 
When  once  a  sincere  trusting  heart's  adoration 
Has  been  with  a  cold-blooded  treason  repaid. 

For  woman,  dear  woman,  ne'er  traffics  by  measure, 
But  risks  her  whole  heart,  without  counting 
the  cost ; 
And  if  the  dear  youth  whom  she  trusts  with  the 
treasure 
Be  shipwrecked,  or  faithless,  her  capital's  lost. 
For  all  she  was  worth,  was  her  stock  of  affection, 
And  bankruptcy  follows,  with  sad  retrospection, 
And  nothing  can  ever  remove  the  dejection 
That  preys  on  a  bosom  whose  prospects  are 
crossed. 


94  A    NUPTIAL    SONG. 


A  NUPTIAL  SONG. 

Oh  blest  is  the  festival  hallowed  by  duty, 

The  banquet  which  Hymen  and  Cupid  supply, 
The  goblet  which  borrows  new  lustre  from  beauty, 

Its  tints  from  her  lip,  and  its  light  from  her  eye. 
Then  join  in  our  revels,  partake  of  our  pleasures, 

For  Hymen  and  Love  here  in  union  preside, 
While  Music  awakens  her  light-footed  measures, 

To  welcome  the  guests,  and  to  honor  the  bride. 

"While  a  spot  in  the  desert  of  life  is  thus  blooming, 

And  soft  sighs  of  rapture  are  fanning  its  bowers, 
While  the  sunbeams  of  mirth  are  its  vistas  illu- 
ming, 

And  bright  tears  of  ecstacy  water  the  flowers  — 
Oh  join  in  our  revels,  partake  of  our  pleasures, 

For  Hymen  and  Love  here  in  union  preside, 
While  Music  awakens  her  light-footed  measures, 

To  welcome  the  guests,  and  to  honor  the  bride. 

Long  life  to  their  pleasures,  till  raptures  supernal, 
Immortal  as  truth,  in  their  bosoms  shall  rise, 

For  the  bliss  of  true  conjugal  love  is  eternal, 
It  blossoms  on  earth  but  to  bloom  in  the  skies. 


THE    WIDOWED    IVY.  95 

Then  join  in  our  revels,  partake  of  our  pleasures. 

For  Hymen  and  Love  here  in  union  preside, 
While  Music  awakens  her  light-footed  measures, 

To  welcome  the  guests,  and  to  honor  the  bride. 


THE  WIDOWED  IVY. 

I  marked  of  late,  in  verdant  pride, 

The  iv)T,  fondly  clinging 
To  the  tall  oak's  majestic  side, 
On  whose  green  branches,  spreading  wide, 

A  wroodland  choir  was  singing. 
But  soon  wras  hushed  the  sylvan  lay, 

The  lightning's  bolt  invaded  ; 
The  oak  was  shivered  in  the  fray, 
The  widowred  ivy  lost  its  stay, 

And  all  its  verdure  faded. 

'Tis  thus  the  fond,  confiding  heart 

On  manly  faith  reposes, 
While  the  sweet  smiles  of  Hope  impart 
Such  hues  to  life's  prospective  chart 

As  deck  the  scene  in  roses. 
But,  ah  !  such  sweets  too  soon  decay, 

By  sorrow's  storm  invaded  ; 


96  CHRIS12IAS    GAMBOLS. 

If  faithless  man  our  hopes  betray, 
The  widowed  heart  will  lose  its  stay, 
And  all  its  joys  be  faded. 


CHRISTMAS  GAMBOLS. 

Hail  the  season  of  joy  and  festivity, 

Social  pleasures  and  innocent  mirth, 
Consecrated  by  Mercy's  Nativity, 

Bliss  angelical  granted  to  earth ! 
Tempests  of  winter  the  forests  may  splinter, 

But  never  can  stint  or  embitter  our  cheer, 
While  love's  soft  wishes  still  sweeten  our  dishes, 

On  merry  Christmas  and  happy  New  Year. 

Hark  !  the  merry  bells,  chiming  from  Trinity, 

Charm  the  ear  with  their  musical  din, 
Telling  all,  throughout  the  vicinity, 

Holyday  gambols  are  now  to  begin  : 
Friends  and  relations,  with  fond  salutations, 

And  warm  gratulations,  together  appear  ; 
While  lovers  and  misses,  with  holyday  kisses, 

Greet  merry  Christmas  and  happy  New  Year. 

Gratitude,  united  with  piety, 

Bids  each  bosom  with  rapture  to  glow, 


CHRISTMAS    GAMBOLS.  97 

Pleasures,  tempered  with  cheerful  sobriety, 
11  Light  up  smiles  in  the  aspect  of  wo  :" 

Sires  and  mothers,  meel  Bisters  and  brothers, 
And  mingle  with  others,  in  festival  cheer : 

And  friends,  long  parted,  assemble,  light-hearted 
On  merry  Christmas  and  happy  Xew  Year. 

Now  commences  the  infantile  revelry, 

Happy  urchins  the  story  believe, 
That  Santa  Claus,  since  ages  of  chivalry, 

Visits  the  nursery  on  holyday  eve. 
Socks,  intended  for  gifts,  are  suspended, 

And  mystic  rites  blended,  the  fancy  to  cheer, 
While  sweet  snap-dragon,  exhausts  the  full  flagon, 

Each  merry  Christmas  and  happy  Xew  Year. 

Then  hail  the  season  of  joy  and  festivity, 

Social  pleasures,  and  innocent  mirth ! 
Which  smooths  the  path  of  age's  declivity, 

And  gives  to  infancy  Eden  on  earth ; 
When  Plenty  her  treasure  bestows  without  meas- 
ure, 

And  innocent  Pleasure  pursues  her  career  ; 
While  Love's  soft  wishes  still  sweeten  our  dishes, 

On  merry  Christmas  and  happy  Xew  Year. 
7 


98  land's  end. 


LAND'S  END. 

The  gale  was  propitious,  all  canvass  was  spread, 

As  swift  through  the  water  we  glided, 
The  tear-drop  yet  glistened  which  friendship  had 
shed, 

Though  the  pang  whence  it  sprang  had  subsided. 
Fast  faded  in  distance  each  object  we  knew, 

As  the  shores  which  we  loved  were  retiring, 
And  the  last  grateful  object  which  lingered  in 
view, 

Was  the  beacon  on  land's  end  aspiring. 

Ah !  here,  I  exclaimed,  is  an  emblem  of  life, 

For  ?t  is  but  a  turbulent  ocean, 
Where  passion  with  reason  is  ever  at  strife, 

While  our  frail  little  barks  are  in  motion. 
The  haven  of  infancy,  calm  and  serene, 

We  leave  in  the  distance  retiring, 
While  memory  lingers,  to  gaze  on  some  scene, 

Like  the  beacon  on  land's  end  aspiring. 

Oh  may  I  be  careful  to  steer  by  that  chart 
Which  Wisdom  in  mercy  has  given, 


I 


THE    TEAK    OF    GRATITUDE.  99 

And  true,  like  the  needle,  this  tremulous  heart 
Be  constantly  pointing  to  heaven  ;     - 

Thus  safety  with  tempests  and  billows  I  ?11  cope, 
And  find  (when  at  last  they  're  subsiding) 

On  the  land's  end  of  life  is  a  beacon  of  hope, 
To  the  harbor  of  happiness  guiding. 


THE  TEAR  OF  GRATITUDE. 

There  is  a  gem  more  pearly  bright, 

More  dear  to  Mercy's  eye, 
Than  love's  sweet  star,  whose  mellow  light 

First  cheers  the  evening  sky  ; 
A  liquid  pearl,  that  glitters  where 

Xo  sorrows  now  intrude, 
A  richer  gem  than  monarchs  wear, 

The  tear  of  gratitude. 

But  ne'er  shall  narrow  love  of  self, 

Invite  this  tribute  forth, 
Xor  can  the  sordid  slave  of  pelf 

Appreciate  its  worth ; 
But  ye  who  sooth  the  widow's  wo, 

And  give  the  orphan  food, 
For  you  this  liquid  pearl  shall  flow, 

The  tear  of  gratitude. 


100  SPRING    AND    AUTUMN. 

Ye,  who  but  slake  an  infant's  thirst, 

In  Heavenly  Mercy's  name, 
Or  proffer  penury  a  crust, 

The  sweet  reward  can  claim. 
Then  as  ye  rove  life's  sunny  banks, 

With  sweetest  flowerets  strewed, 
Still  may  you  claim  the  widow's  thanks, 

The  orphan's  gratitude. 


SPRING  AND  AUTUMN. 

How  pleasing,  how  lovely  appears 
Sweet  infancy,  sportive  and  gay  ; 

Its  prattle,  its  smiles,  and  its  tears, 
Like  spring,  or  the  dawning  of  day  ! 

But  manhood  ?s  the  season  designed 
For  wisdom,  for  works,  and  for  use  ; 

To  ripen  the  fruits  of  the  mind, 

Which  the  seeds  sown  in  childhood  produce. 


i 


TO    ADELAIDE    FELICITY  101 


TO  ADELAIDE  FELICITY. 

Before  thy  infant  lips  could  frame, 
With  lisping  tone,  a  parent's  name  ; 
When  first  a  smile  of  playful  grace 
Was  seen  upon  thy  cherub  face ; 
While  dandled  on  thy  mother's  knee  — 
Think'st  thou  that  smile  was  dear  to  me  ? 
T  was,  Adelaide  —  Felicity. 

When  thou,  at  last,  couldst  run  alone, 
And  lisp  our  names  with  dulcet  tone  ; 
And  like  the  lamb,  in  frolic  play, 
Didst  wile  the  laughing  hours  away; 
Thy  father's  bosom  throbbed  with  glee, 
While  love  maternal  guarded  thee, 
Twas,  Adelaide  — Felicity. 

But  ah  !  how  faint  a  joy  was  this, 
Compared  with  our  superior  bliss, 
When,  budding  in  the  spring  of  youth, 
Replete  with  virtue,  love,  and  truth, 
And  every  grace  we  wished  to  see, 
Thy  doting  parents  gazed  on  thee  — 
'Twas,  Adelaide  —  Felicitv. 


102  TO    MISS    SARAH    HOWARD. 

And  when  with  cultivated  mind, 

By  knowledge  stored,  by  art  refined, 

Thy  faithful  heart,  thy  hand,  thy  will, 

Were  pledged  to  one  who  holds  them  still, 

One  who  is  worthy  even  thee, 

What  think  you,  owed  the  youth  to  me  ? 

'T  was,  Adelaide  —  Felicity. 

And  now,  thy  lengthened  absence  o'er, 
I  hold  thee  in  my  arms  once  more, 
And  kiss  the  pearls  of  joy  away, 
And  see  the  smiles  of  rapture  play 
About  the  lips  from  sorrow  free, 
What,  thinkst  thou,  calls  this  tear  from  me  ? 
>T  is,  Adelaide  —  Felicity. 


TO  MISS  SARAH  HOWARD. 

I  asked  the  muse  to  breathe  a  name 

Which  Mercy  loved  the  dearest  : 
The  brightest  on  the  roll  of  fame, 

To  perfect  worth  the  nearest  ; 
Whose  heart  would  bleed,  but  never  shrink, 

When  gloom  and  danger  lowered, 
Who  dared  destruction's  awful  brink, 
To  save  the  wretch  about  to  sink  — 

She  smiled  and  whispered  —  "  Howard.'* 


THE    KALEIDOSCOPE.  103 

I  asked  her  then  to  name  a  fair, 
Whose  thousand  traits  of  beauty, 

Derive  the  sweetest  grace  they  wear 
From  virtue,  love,  and  duty  : 

Who,  when  her  parents  helpless  lay, 
*  By  fell  disease  overpowered, 

With  tearless,  sleepless  eye,  would  stay 

To  watch  their  couches,  night  and  day, 

The  pangs  of  sickness  to  allay  — 

The  muse  still  whispered  —  "  Howard." 


THE  KALEIDOSCOPE. 

Just  like  Hope,  this  magic  toy 
Shows  a  thousand  forms  of  joy, 
Of  richest  shape  and  sweetest  hue, 
For  ever  varying  —  ever  new, 
Just  like  Hope. 

Innocence,  a  playful  child, 
Raised  the  tube,  and  looked,  and  smiled, 
And  still  he  gazed,  with  rapture  wild, 
For  every  change  his  heart  beguiled, 
Just  like  Hope. 

Sage  Experience  chanced  to  pass, 
Seized  the  toy,  and  broke  the  glass, 


104  THE    IMPRISONED    DEBTOR. 

And  soon  convinced  the  weeping  boy 
How  false  was  bis  illusive  joy, 
Just  like  Hope. 

Still  the  silly  child  believed 
That  his  loss  would  be  retrieved, 
Another  tried,  and  still  he  grieved, 
For  every  flattering  tube  deceived, 
Just  like  Hope. 

Just  like  Hope,  this  magic  toy 
Shows  a  thousand  forms  of  joy, 
Of  richest  shape  and  sweetest  hue, 
For  ever  varying  —  ever  new, 
Just  like  Hope- 


THE  IMPRISONED  DEBTOR. 

The  slave  inhales  the  morning's  healthful  breeze, 
And  gambols  gayly  o'er  the  verdant  plain  ; 

But  ah  !  the  debtor  tastes  no  joys  like  these, 
But  breathes  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  pain. 

The  slave  has  friends  —  a  wife  and  children  dear, 
Whose  fond  caresses  every  grief  dispel  ; 

But  ah  !  no  friend  —  no  wife  or  child  is  near, 
To  bless  the  debtor's  solitary  cell. 


THK    FLOWERS    OF    LIFE.  105 

Near  the  sad  couch  on  which  bis  Emma  weeps, 
Her  sickly  fancy  paints  his  wasting  frame  ; 

And  from  the  cradle  where  her  infant  sleeps, 
Unconscious  lips  pronounce  a  father's  name. 

Alas,  poor  babe  !  thy  father  hears  thee  not  ; 

In  the  cold  jail  his  lonely  lamp  he  trims, 
To  wake  and  muse  upon  our  hapless  lot, 

The  chains  of  avarice  clanking  on  his  limbs. 

But  though,  my  child,  our  eyes  dissolve  in  showers, 
Our  cheeks  are  strangers  to  the  blush  of  shame, 

For  oh  !  one  boast,  one  legacy  is  ours  — 
His  spotless  honor  and  unblemished  fame. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  journey  of  life,  let  us  scorn  to  complain  of 
The  trifling  impediments  found  in  the  road  ; 

The  worst  I  encounter  I  laugh  at  the  pain  of, 
For  sweet-smiling  cheerfulness  lightens  the  load. 

If  I  find  not  a  rose,  I  indulge  not  in  sorrow, 
But  pluck  with  contentment  a  daisy  to-day  ; 

Nay,  even  a  sprig  will  feed  hope  for  to-morrow, 
The  humblest  that  nods  to  the  zephyrs  of  May. 


106  THE    FLOWERS    OF    LIFE. 

Let  others  dispute,  I  '11  avoid  their  dissention, 
Religious,  political,  moral,  or  such  ; 

For  the  lily  of  peace  thus  escapes  their  attention, 
The  sweet  bud  of  pleasure  which  blooms  at  my 
touch. 

The  blossoms  of  friendship,  surviving  mortality, 
I  '11  carefully  cherish  and  wear  in  my  breast ; 

Though  its  picture  may  boast  brighter  hues  than 
reality, 
Its  fragrance  directs  me,  when  doubtful  the  test. 

The  spirit  of  feeling,  the  soul  of  affection, 
Wildly  ardent  in  rapture,  and  melting  in  wo, 

Whatever  its  image,  attire,  or  complexion, 
With  mine  shall  commingle  in  sympathy's  glow. 

I  ask  not  his  birthplace,  whatever  the  region, 
Hot,  temperate,  frigid  — despotic  or  free  ; 

I  ask  not  his  politics,  creed,  or  religion, 

A  Turk,  Jew  or  Christian  —  he 's  still  dear  to 
me. 

But  ah !  there  's  a  flower,  which,  teeming  with 
nectar, 

Beneath  its  fair  aspect  screen's  misery's  dart, 
So  artfully  veiled  that  it  mocks  a  detect er, 

Till,  pressed  to  the  bosom,  it  pierces  the  heart. 


THE    FLOWEKS    OF    LIFF.  107 

But  still,  to  a  bosom  susceptibly  placid, 

The  anguish  of  love  will  but  heighten  the  joy; 

As  the  bev'rage  uniting  a  sweet  with  an  acid, 
Is  grateful,  when  nectar  on  tempered  would  cloy. 

The  bramble  of  avarice  others  may  nourish, 
Exhausting  life's  soil  of  its  virtues  and  strength ; 

I'll  stray  where  the  plants  of  beneficence  flourish, 
And  the  generous  vine  winds   its   serpentine 
length. 

Let  misers  pursue  their  mean  sordid  employment, 
And  hoard  up  their  treasures  for  life's  latest 
scenes  ; 

I  '11  waste  not  the  moments  allowed  for  enjoyment, 
Nor  squander  the  season  in  gaining  the  means. 

Our  object  is  happiness  —  ne'er  could  we  miss  it, 
In  life's  varied  path,  if  the  talent  were  ours 

From  all  we  encounter  some  good  to  elicit, 
As  bees  gather  sweets  from  the  meanest  of 
flowers. 

Then  pluck  every  blossom  of  happiness  blooming  ; 
Leave  birds  of  contention,  and  play  with  the 
dove  ; 
And  our  path,  soon  the  flush  of  enchantment  as- 
suming, 
Will  glow,  an  elysium  of  pleasure  and  love. 


108  EDWIN    DELISLE. 


EDWIN  DELISLE. 

The  battle  was  ended,  whose  direful  commotion 

Gave  tyrants  the  victims  unclaimed  by  the  wave, 
And  the  last  ray  of  Phoebus  illumined  the  ocean, 

As  it  shot  o'er  the  land  of  the  ill-fated  brave. 
The  western  breeze  wafted  the  ship  o'er  the  main, 

Far,  far  from  their  country  and  liberty's  smile ; 
Each  captive  enshackled  with  tyranny's  chain, 

The  noblest  of  whom  was  young  Edwin  Delisle. 

Apart  from  his  comrades,  his  manly  breast  bleed- 
ing 

With  anguish  too  piercing  for  nature  to  bear, 
Distracted  he  viewed  his  dear  country  receding, 

And  bade  it  adieu  in  a  tone  of  despair  : 
"  Oh  region  of  happiness,  freedom,  and  peace ! 

Columbia,  adieu  !  not  for  Edwin  you  smile, 
For  soon,  with  his  sorrows,  existence  must  cease, 

For  rent  is  the  heart  of  poor  Edwin  Delisle. 

"  Eliza !  my  angel !  fate  dooms  us  to  sever, 
Though  brought  to  the  climate  that  fosters  thy 
charms  ; 


FRIENDSHIP.  109 

III  sight  of  my  country,  I  lose  it  for  ever, 

In  view  of  my  love,  I  am  torn  from  her  arms  | 

Three  times  have  the  seasons  their  circle  fulfilled. 
Since  Edwin  was  blest  with  affection's  sweet 
smile, 

Since,  pressed  to  his  bosom,  Eliza  be  held, 
As  she  sighed  a  farewell  to  her  Edwin  Delisle. 

"'Three  years  shall  restore  me/  I  cried,  as  we 
parted  ; 
The  term  has  expired,  and  my  eyes  caught  the 
shore  ; 
Hope  flatter'd,  then  left  to  despair, broken-hearted, 
The  wretch  for  whom  freedom  and  joy  are  no 
more. 
The  shadows  of  eve  shroud  thy  land  from  my  view, 
But  ah  !  there 's  another  where  joys  ever  smile  ! 
God  of  mercy,  forgive  me!  —  Eliza,  adieu!" 
He  plunged  —  and  the  waves  covered  Edwin 
Delisle. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

What  power  can  prop  a  sinking  soul, 

Oppressed  with  woes  and  sick  of  grief, 
Bid  the  warm  tear  forbear  to  roll, 
Despair's  heart-rending  sigh  control, 

And  whisper  sweet  relief? 


110  FRIENDS  HIT. 

Friendship !  sweet  balm  for  sorrow's  smart, 

In  thee  the  soothing  power  is  found, 
To  heal  the  lacerated  heart, 
Extract  affliction's  venomed  dart, 
And  close  the  bleeding  wound. 

When  pierced  by  griefs  chill  tempest  through, 

The  tendril  bends  beneath  its  power, 
Thou  canst  the  broken  plant  renew  : 
Thy  sacred  tear,  like  heavenly  dew, 
Revives  the  drooping  flower. 

If  fortune  frown  —  if  health  depart, 
Or  death  divide  the  tenderest  tie, 

Friendship  can  raise  the  sinking  heart, 

A  glow  of  real  joy  impart, 
And  wipe  the  tearful  eye. 

If  foes  without  attack  our  name, 

Or  foes  within  assault  our  peace, 
Then  friendship's  pure  celestial  flame, 
Can  sooth  the  mind  —  defend  our  fame, 
And  bid  assailants  cease. 

Come,  then,  sweet  power,  of  source  divine, 

For  ever  glow  within  my  breast  ; 
My  earliest  friend  be  ever  mine, 
One  link  our  hearts  in  union  join, 
To  make  each  other  blest. 


HIBERNIANS    TEARS.  1  1  1 


HIBERNIAN  TEARS. 

Hibernians  tears  for  ever  flow, 

Her  harp  in  silence  slumbers  ; 
Her  bards  the  patriot  song  forego, 

Nor  dare  to  breathe  its  numbers. 
No  more  they  bid  the  swelling  tone 

In  freedom's  cause  awaken  ; 
Those  happy  days  of  bliss  are  flown, 

And  Erin  weeps,  forsaken ! 

But  though  her  sons  in  exile  roam, 

They  sleep  on  freedom's  pillow  ; 
And  Erin's  daughters  find  a  home 

Beyond  the  western  billow. 
There  shall  they  breathe  the  glowing  strain, 

To  joy's  ecstatic  numbers  ; 
There  Erin's  harp  shall  wake  again, 

In  rapture,  from  its  slumbers. 


112  CALUMNY. 


CALUMNY. 

Ah,  what  avails  the  shield  of  truth, 
The  charm  of  virtue,  beauty,  youth, 
Against  that  fiend  deformed,  uncouth, 

Whose  wounds  no  lenient  balm  can  close  ? 
Assailed  by  Slander's  venomed  tooth, 
The  sensate  mind  must  droop,  forsooth, 

And  wither  like  a  cankered  rose. 
Yes,  they  who  ever  felt  the  pang 
Of  Calumny's  inveterate  fang, 
Must  own  that  minstrel  never  sang, 
Of  all  the  woes  from  guilt  that  sprang, 

Of  deeper,  dreader,  deadlier  foes. 

Oh  thou,  who  hast  been  thus  betrayed 
By  secret  foes,  in  ambush  laid, 
To  plot  and  stab  beneath  the  shade  ; 
Whose  viewless  shafts  have  mocked  the  aid 
Of  Virtue's  buckler  to  evade 

The  cruel,  pointed,  venomed  barb  — 
Know,  hapless  wretch  !  whoe'er  thou  be, 
There  is  between  thyself  and  me 
A  sighing  chord  of  sympathy  ; 


OH    TRUST    NOT    HOPE.  113 

For  1  have  also  felt,  like  thee, 
The  cureless  wounds  of  Calumny, 
Who  kissed  and  stabbed  —  for  he  —  for  he 
Had  stolen  honest  Friendship's  garb. 

But  what,  alas,  avails  complaint  ? 
Be  man  more  holy  than  a  saint, 
Be  lovely  woman  "  chaste  as  snow 
And  pure  as  ice,"  they  still  must  know 
The  keenest  pang  of  human  wo. 

The  rankling  wound  of  Calumny. 
But  hear  a  Saviour's  accents  mild, 
"  The  persecuted  and  reviled 

Are  blessed,"  saith  the  Lord. 
Then  still,  in  conscious  virtue  clad, 
4'  Rejoice,  and  be  exceeding  glad, 

For  great  is  your  reward." 


OH  TRUST  NOT  HOPE. 

Oh  trust  not  faithless  Hope  too  far, 
Lest  disappointment's  venomed  dart 

Should  all  thy  fairest  prospects  mar, 
And  lacerate  thy  constant  heart ; 

For  I  have  trusted  in  her  smile, 
Nor  heard  the  distant  thunder  roll, 
8 


114  AN    IMITATION    FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

Nor  saw  the  cloud  approach  the  while, 

Whose  lightnings  since  have  pierced  my  soul. 

Oh  trust  not,  then,  the  smile  of  hope, 

A  hurricane  succeeds  the  calm, 
E'en  while  we  stroll  some  verdant  slope 

Where  flow'rets  freight  the  breeze  with  balm — 
Ere  we  can  say  "the  scene  is  sweet," 

'T  is  blasted  by  some  demon's  breath  ; 
Then  trust  not,  trust  not,  I  entreat, 

The  treacherous  smile  that  lures  to  death. 


AN  IMITATION  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

All  hues  become  a  pretty  face, 
For  beauty  needs  no  foreign  grace ; 
A  flower,  or  anything,  in  truth, 
Will  ornament  the  brow  of  youth, 
While  sparkling  gems  may  vainly  shine 
Where  age  and  ugliness  combine. 

Oh  then,  be  wise,  ye  gentle  fair, 
And  all  the  ornaments  you  wear 
From  taste,  instead  of  wealth,  obtain, 
Nor  longer  court  your  glass  in  vain. 


AN  DOTATION  FROM  THE  FRENCH.     115 

The  Prize  of  Beauty  (once  decreed, 
To  Paphian  Venus,  as  we  read) 
Was  not  awarded  to  the  fair 
For  any  brilliants  in  her  hair. 

No,  't  was  her  native  charms  acquired 
The  prize  her  rivals  so  desired  ; 
Her  face,  her  neck,  her  bosom,  waist, 
Her  easy  negligence  and  taste, 
Her  attitude,  her  hair,  her  eyes  — 
With  these  the  goddess  won  the  prize. 

Oh  then,  ye  fair,  who  seek  to  please, 
Cherish  simplicity  and  ease  ; 
With  modest  taste,  give  no  occasion 
To  quote  Apelles'  observation.* 
Remember,  that  a  grace  denied, 
Was  by  a  bauble  ne'er  supplied. 

*  An  ignorant  painter  having  decorated  the  portrait  of  Helen 
with  trinkets,  Apelles  observed,  that  the  picture  was  "rich  in 
ornaments,  but  poor  in  beauty,"  and  that  the  "  artist  had  embel- 
lished her  with  jewels,  because  he  had  not  abilities  to  paint  her 
beautiful." 


116  THE    DEAF    AND    DUMB, 


THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

The  ills  which  call  for  pity's  tear, 

Were  all  in  mercy  given ; 
The  fettered  tongue,  obstructed  ear, 
And  every  wo  we  suffer  here, 

Invite  us  back  to  Heaven. 

But  he  who  binds  the  bleeding  heart 

By  sorrow's  tempest  riven, 
Whose  kindness  dries  the  tears  that  start, 
Performs  a  man's,  an  angel's  part, 

And  aids  the  plan  of  Heaven. 

Then  see  the  tear  from  misery's  cheek, 

By  love  and  genius  driven  ! 
Behold  !  they  gain  the  end  they  seek ! 
The  deaf  can  hear  !  the  dumb  can  speak  ! 

And  praise  approving  Heaven. 

And  now  a  bright  and  glorious  morn 

Succeeds  a  dusky  even  ; 
The  dazzled  soul,  but  newly  born, 
In  wonder  lost,  salutes  the  dawn, 

And  hails  the  sun  of  heaven. 


BEAUTY,    SWEET    MYSTERIOUS    POWER.         117 


BEAUTY,  SWEET  MYSTERIOUS  POWER. 

Beauty,  sweet  mysterious  power, 
Secret  spring  of  all  that  moves, 

Goddess  of  the  Paphian  bower, 
Mother  of  the  infant  loves  ; 

Which  can  make  the  wicked  good, 

Savage  sentiments  abolish, 
Melt  the  hard,  refine  the  rude, 

Teach  the  clown  a  courtier's  polish  ; 

Which  can  make  the  simple  wise, 
Or  deprive  the  wise  of  reason  ; 

Bid  the  statesman  sink  or  rise, 
Urge  to  loyalty  or  treason  : — 

Now  exciting  modest  fear, 

Now  with  lawless  rudeness  firing  ; 

Prompting  to  be  faithless  here, 
There  with  constancy  inspiring. 

'T  is  the  power  that  banes  or  blesses  ; 

Where  shall  we  its  image  find  ? 
'T  is  the  nymph  whose  eye  expresses 

Charms  belonging  to  the  mind. 


118  THE    MINSTREL. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

How  happy  is  the  minstrel's  lot, 

Whose  song  each  care  beguiles ; 
The  frowns  of  fortune  fright  him  not, 

Nor  does  he  court  her  smiles. 
Contented  with  his  tuneful  lyre, 

His  art  can  yield  the  rest ; 
He  pours  his  soul  along  the  wire, 

And  rapture  fires  his  breast. 

He  envies  not  the  power  of  kings, 

With  all  their  glittering  toys ; 
The  tones  that  warble  from  his  strings 

Impart  sublimer  joys. 
He  builds  a  world  of  airy  bliss, 

Where  love  erects  his  throne ; 
And  though  his  fancy  frame  the  kiss, 

Its  sweets  are  all  his  own. 

What  though  no  wealth  his  song  repays, 

Xor  laurels  deck  his  lyre  ; 
The  glow  he  catches  from  its  lays 

Is  bliss  supremely  higher. 


A    DUETT.  119 

What  though  his  fairy  pleasures  seem 

Illusion's  shapeless  toys  — 
He  would  not  lose  so  sweet  a  dream 

For  all  your  waking  joys. 


A  DUETT 

BOTH. 

Now  the  torch  of  rapture  burns, 
Sorrows  fly,  and  joy  returns  ; 
Hope,  in  blushing  garlands  drest, 
Comes  again,  a  welcome  guest. 

SHE. 

So  the  gloomy  shades  of  night 

HE. 

Fade  before  the  dawn  of  light ; 

SHE. 

Till  Aurora's  blushing  ray 

BOTH. 

Kindle  darkness  into  day. 


120  HARLEM    MARY. 


CONFIDING  WOMAN. 

Confiding  woman  yields  her  heart 

Without  a  reservation, 
While  man  can  only  love  by  art, 

And  sordid  calculation. 

Xo  earthly  ill  can  him  annoy, 
But  she  would  gladly  bear  it, 

Nor  has  the  world  for  her  a  joy, 
Unless  her  lover  share  it. 


HARLEM  MAEY. 

They  sing  of  blue-eyed  Mary, 

Who  gathered  flowers  to  sell, 
But  there's  a  sweeter  fairy, 

In  Harlem's  flowery  dell ; 
Whose  violets,  pinks,  and  roses, 

Display  a  richer  bloom, 
*T  were  bliss  to  gain  such  posies, 

And  taste  their  rich  perfume. 


THE    BASHFUL   LOVER.  121 

The  violet's  softest  azure 

Is  swimming  in  her  eye  ; 
The  rose's  vermeil  treasure, 

On  either  cheek  we  spy  ; 
The  fragrant  pink's  carnation, 

Its  nectar  and  perfume, 
In  sweetest  combination, 

Have  dressed  her  lips  in  bloom. 

And  she  has  learned  to  cherish 

A  never-fading  flower  ; 
When  pinks  and  roses  perish 

'T  will  still  adorn  her  bower  ; 
Its  tints  will  never  vary, 

Its  fragance  ne'er  depart, 
'T  will  always  bloom  with  Mary, 

'T  is  planted  in  her  heart. 


THE  BASHFUL  LOVER. 

When  bashful  Lubin  sought  my  hand, 

My  heart  his  suit  approved, 
But,  feigning  not  to  understand, 

I  listened  still  unmoved. 
For  dim,  I  thought,  must  burn  that  flame, 

Which  such  a  check  could  smother, 


122  THE    NEEDLE. 

And  sprightly  girls  are  not  to  blame 
To  spurn  a  bashful  lover. 

Poor  Lubin  told  a  friend  his  case, 

Who  soon  his  fears  allayed, 
And  bade  him  wear  a  bolder  face  — 

He  listened,  and  obeyed. 
Returning  soon,  with  altered  mien, 

He  might  at  once  discover, 
That  sprightly  girls,  of  gay  sixteen, 

Ne'er  spurn  a  saucy  lover. 


THE  NEEDLE. 

The  gay  belles  of  fashion  may  boast  of  excelling 

In  waltz  or  cotillion  —  at  whist  or  quadrille  ; 
And  seek  admiration  by  vauntingly  telling, 

Of  drawing,  and  painting,  and  musical  skill ; 
But  give  me  the  fair  one,  in  country  or  city, 

Whose  home  and  its  duties  are  dear  to  her 
heart, 
Who  cheerfully  warbles  some  rustical  ditty, 

While  plying  the  needle  with  exquisite  art. 
The  bright  little  needle— the  swift-flying  needle, 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art. 


William's  grave.  123 

If  Love  have  a  potent,  a  magical  token, 

A  talisman,  ever  resistless  and  true  — 
A  charm  that  is  never  evaded  or  broken, 

A  witchery  certain  the  heart  to  subdue  — 
T  is  this  —  and  his  armory  never  has  furnished 

So  keen  and  unerring,  or  polished  a  dart  ; 
Let  Beauty  direct  it,  so  pointed  and  burnished, 

And  oh  !  it  is  certain  of  touching  the  heart. 

Be  wise  then,  ye  maidens,  nor  seek  admiration 

By  dressing  for  conquest,  and  flirting  with  all; 
You  never,  whatever  be  your  fortune  or  station, 

Appear  half  so  lovely  at  rout  or  at  ball, 
As  gayly  convened  at  a  work-covered  table, 

Each  cheerfully  active  and  playing  her  part, 
Beguiling  the  task  with  a  song  or  a  fable, 

And  plying  the  needle  with  exquisite  art. 


WILLIAM'S  GRAVE. 

The  death-bell  tolled,  and  it  fell  on  my  ear, 

Like  the  knell  of  departed  bliss, 
As  I  gazed  in  despair  on  William's  bier, 
With  eyes  that  were  burning  without  a  tear, 
To  soften  a  pang  like  this. 


124  WILLIAM'S    GRAVE. 

For  William  was  all  that  I  valued  below, 

His  bosom  was  honor's  shrine, 
His  hand  to  the  needy  was  prompt  to  bestow, 
While  he  lighted  up  "  smiles  in  the  aspect  of  wo," 

And  kindled  new  rapture  in  mine. 

But  death  was  relentless,  and  William  bowed 

To  a  sudden  and  early  doom, 
No  longer  the  life  of  the  listening  crowd, 
He  lowly  reclines  in  a  coffin  and  shroud, 

And  sleeps  in  the  narrow  tomb. 

They  made  him  a  bed  in  the  cold,  damp  ground, 

Where  they  laid  my  love  to  rest, 
The  sable-clad  mourners  stood  silent  around, 
And  sighed  in  response  to  the  murmuring  sound 

Of  the  clods,  as  they  fell  on  his  breast. 

My  heart  was  so  full  that  I  could  not  weep, 
With  spasms  I  drew  my  breath,  t 

My  sobs  were  so  low,  and  convulsively  deep, 
That  I  hoped  soon  to  share  in  my  William's  sleep, 
In  the  chilly  embrace  of  death. 

From  these  widowed  arms,  my  love  was  torn, 

When  hope  was  revelling  bright, 
And  his  spirit  has  passed  the  eternal  bourne, 
While  hapless  Maria  is  left  to  mourn, 

Through  sorrow's  starless  night. 


THIS    LIFE    IS    NOT    THE    VALE    OF    WO.         1*25 

But  morning  will  dawn,  and  I  shall  rise, 

When  life's  brittle  cord  shall  sever ; 
In  regions  far  brighter  I  '11  open  my  eyes, 
And  meet  my  dear  William  above  the  skies, 
To  part  no  more  for  ever. 


THIS  LIFE  IS  NOT  THE  VALE  OF  WO. 

This  life  is  not  the  vale  of  wo 

Which  stoics  paint  in  declamation, 
For  countless  blossoms  round  us  glow 

Which  breathe  the  sweetest  exhalation. 
Then  let 's  enjoy  our  sunny  hours, 

Xor  mourn  anticipated  gloom, 
'Tis  folly  to  neglect  the  flowers, 

Because  they  may  not  always  bloom. 

Let  fools  for  rank  and  honor  seek, 

I  envy  not  their  elevation  ; 
Ambition's  path  is  wild  and  bleak, 

Content  is  in  an  humbler  station. 
May  sweet  content,  dear  girl,  be  thine, 

Health,  friendship,  and  a  faithful  lover, 
And  never  let  the  dove  repine, 

Because  the  eagle  soars  above  her. 


126  A   TRIO. 


A  TRIO. 

RONALD. 

Adieu  to  love,  'tis  glory  calls, 
I  go  to  seek  the  post  of  danger, 

'Mid  clashing  blades  and  whizzing  balls, 
My  heart  to  peaceful  thoughts  a  stranger. 

LOUISA. 

May  heaven  protect  thee  in  the  fight, 
I  breathe  the  wish  with  pious  fervor, 

ERNEST    AND    LOUISA. 

And  may  its  choicest  blessings  light 
On  thee,  our  generous,  kind  preserver. 

LOUISA. 

What  e'er  thy  future  fate  may  be, 

ERNEST    AND    LOUISA. 

Whatever  ills  beset  thee, 

ALL. 

Oh,  deign  sometimes  to  think  of  me, 
Who  never  can  forget  thee. 


THE    TOMB    OF    HENRY.  127 


THE  TOMB  OF  HENRY. 

Where  Hudson's  murmuring  billows 

Kiss  Jersey's  verdant  shore, 
Beneath  those  spreading  willows 

Sleeps  Henry  of  the  moor. 
The  pride  of  all  the  plain 
Was  Anna's  chosen  swain  : 
But  Anna  weeps,  for  Henry  sleeps 
Beneath  the  weeping-willow  tree. 

They  loved  with  pure  affection, 
Their  artless  souls  were  true  ; 

The  promising  connection 

Their  friends  with  rapture  view, 

And  name  the  morn  of  May 

Their  happy  wedding  day. 
But  Anna  weeps,  for  Henry  sleeps 

Beneath  the  weeping-willow  tree. 

They  hail  the  rising  morrow, 
Which  dawns  to  see  them  blest ; 

But  ah  !  ere  eve,  what  sorrow 
Fills  Anna's  lovely  breast ! 


128  THE    TOMB    OF    HENRY. 

She  sees  the  Hudson's  wave 
Become  her  Henry's  grave  ; 
And  Anna  weeps,  for  Henry  sleeps 
Beneath  the  weeping-willow  tree. 

She  tears  her  flowing  tresses, 
Invokes  his  parted  breath, 

And  with  her  wild  caresses 
Invites  him  back  from  death  ; 

But  ah  !  her  lip's  warm  kiss 

Imparts  no  glow  to  his ! 
And  Anna  weeps,  for  Henry  sleeps 

Beneath  the  weeping-willow  tree. 

She  sees  beneath  the  willow 

Her  lover  laid  to  rest, 
The  earth  his  nuptial  pillow, 

And  not  her  virgin  breast. 
Around  his  verdant  tomb 
The  early  daisies  bloom  ; 
There  Anna  weeps,  there  Henry  sleeps 
Beneath  the  weeping-willow  tree. 


YOU    HESITATE OH   THEN    'TIS    YOU.         129 


NO  MORE  SHALL  HOPE'S  ILLUSIVE  DREAM. 

No  more  shall  hope's  illusive  dream, 
Nor  wild  ambition's  idle  scheme, 
With  visions  false  distract  my  brain, 
Of  promised  good  I  ne'er  obtain. 

But  here  in  life's  sequestered  path, 
I  '11  smile  at  fate,  nor  dread  its  wrath, 
And  calmly  look  without  a  moan, 
On  bliss  that  might  have  been  my  own. 


YOU  HESITATE  — OH  THEN  'TIS  YOU. 

You  hesitate  —  Oh  then  'tis  you, 
To  whom  my  grateful  thanks  are  due ! 
Confess  it  then,  for  you  alone 

So  sensitively  feeling, 
Could  nobly  act  as  you  have  done, 
The  action  still  concealing. 
Yes,  yes  —  'tis  plain  —  the  truth  I  see, 
Confess  the  artifice  to  me. 
9 


130  A    REQUEST. 

You  '11  not  confess,  when  I  implore  ! 
Then  never  seek  to  serve  me  more. 
I  blushed  not  to  accept  the  boon, 

So  delicately  tendered, 
The  favor  which  you  are  so  soon, 
Ashamed  of  having  rendered. 
Yes,  yes  —  'tis  plain — the  truth  I  see, 
Ashamed  of  having  rendered  me. 


A  REQUEST. 

Though  milder  skies  allure  thee  hence, 

And  smiling  native  scenes  invite, 
Where  fancy  to  thy  view  presents 

A  glowing  picture  of  delight. 
No  flowery  vales,  nor  verdant  scenes, 

So  sweet  a  fragrance  can  impart, 
As  friendship's  tender  evergreens, 

Nourished  by  memory  in  the  heart. 

In  ours  those  plants  shall  ever  bloom, 
Freshened  by  tear-drops  of  regret, 

While  one  sweet  hope  will  light  the  gloom, 
The  hope  that  thou  wilt  not  forget. 


TO    A    LADY.  131 

But  should  new  friends  and  joys  efface, 
The  forms  of  those  thou  leav'st  behind, 

Oh  let  the  humble  lines  I  trace, 
Recall  the  picture  to  thy  mind. 


TO  A  LADY. 

WRITTEN    IN    HER   ALBUM. 

Among  the  flowers  of  sentiment 

Which  form  this  bright  boquet, 
The  humble  tribute  I  present 
May  claim  a  place  —  for  it  is  meant 

My  friendship  to  portray. 
But  be  it  not,  I  pray,  united 

With  hyacinth  or  yew, 
Emblems,  alas  !  of  friendship  slighted, 
Of  pure  affection  unrequited, 

And  cold  indifference  too. 

But  let  the  offering  bloom  beside 

The  muse's  eglantine  — 
Between  the  lalac's  purple  pride, 
And  one  more  delicately  dyed, 

The  fragrant  jessamine. 


132  DEDICATION    OF    AN    ALBUM. 

For  we,  in  these,  the  emblem  trace, 

Of  poesy  and  youth, 
And  that  inestimable  grace 
Which  guards  the  heart,  and  lights  the  face 

Of  modesty  and  truth. 

The  constant  myrtle  may  be  near, 

The  timid  violet  too, 
The  amaranth,  to  virtue  dear, 
And  the  sweet  rose,  which  all  revere, 

Of  thee,  an  emblem  true. 
But  let  no  cold  narcissus  bloom, 

Dear  maid,  to  blight  the  rest ; 
For,  ah !  self-love  is  sure  to  doom 
Our  virtues  to  an  early  tomb, 

If  cherish  in  the  breast. 


DEDICATION  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

And  is  my  humble  lyre  to  be 
The  first  that  wakes  a  lay, 

To  dedicate  a  book  to  thee, 

Designed  for  wit  and  poesy  ? 
Dear  lady  I  obey. 

For  like  this  fair  unsullied  leaf, 
Was  once  thy  infant  mind  ; 


ANSWER    TO    A    LADY.  133 

Save  when  alternate  joy  and  grief 
Flitted  across,  with  stay  so  brief, 
They  left  no  trace  behind. 

But  genius,  wit,  and  taste  refined, 

With  knowledge,  science,  art, 
Saw  the  bright  tablet  of  thy  mind, 
A  spotless  blank,  and  all  combined 

To  fill  so  fair  a  chart. 
And  long,  I  trust,  this  volume  will 

Of  thee  an  emblem  prove  ; 
While  wit  and  taste  its  pages  fill, 
Be  every  precept  they  instil 

Such  as  the  virtuous  love. 


ANSWER  TO  A  LADY, 

WHO  SENT  HER  ALBUM  TO  THE  AUTHOR  FOR  A 
CONTRIBUTION. 

And  dost  thou  then  request  a  lay 

From  one  to  thee  unknown, 
One,  who,  without  that  kindling  ray 
Which  bright  inspiring  eyes  convey, 

Could  never  wake  a  tone  ? 


134  ANSWER    TO    A    LADY. 

Alas !  the  heartless  lines  I  trace 

Will  have  no  charm  for  thee  ; 
For  if  Peru's  untutored  race, 
Had  never  seen  their  god's  bright  face, 

How  cold  their  prayers  would  be ! 

?Tis  true  that  Fame,  in  brightest  dyes, 

Her  magic  pencil  dips, 
To  paint  the  mental  charms  I  prize, 
Reflected  from  thy  sparkling  eyes, 

Or  warbled  from  thy  lips. 

But  ah  !  however  bright  we  own 

The  portrait  all  admire, 
The  fair  original  alone 
Could  waken  feeling's  purest  tone 

From  my  neglected  lyre. 

When  thou  wouldst  catch  the  dewdrops,  shook 

From  Fancy's  glittering  wring, 
Let  thy  own  hand  present  the  book, 
And  with  thy  own  bewitching  look, 

Inspire  the  bard  to  sing. 


OH    WHAT    IS    VIRTUE?  135 


OH  WHAT  IS  VIRTUE? 

TO    A    LADY. 

Oh  what  is  virtue  ?  —  't  is  to  keep 

Each  passion  under  strict  control, 
Nor  let  a  wily  tempter  creep 

Into  the  garden  of  the  soul  ; 
It  is  to  conquer  selfish  pride, 

And  each  inordinate  desire, 
To  take  the  Scriptures  for  our  guide, 

And  speak  and  act  as  they  require. 

Oh  what  is  virtue  ;  —  ?t  is  to  love 

Beyond  all  things  in  time  and  space, 
Him  who  descended  from  above, 

To  save  from  death  our  rebel  race  ; 
It  is  to  love  the  words  he  spake, 

Which  none  on  earth  e'er  spake  before* 
His  burden  and  his  yoke  to  take, 

And  bear  them  meekly  as  he  bore. 

Oh  what  is  virtue  ?  —  't  is  to  prize 
Another's  interest  as  our  own  ; 


136  RONDEAU. 

In  joy  or  grief  to  sympathize, 

For  bliss  received,  or  pleasures  flown. 

It  is  to  keep  the  mind  and  heart, 
From  every  selfish  motive  free  ; 

To  walk  by  Truth's  unerring  chart  — 
It  is,  in  short,  to  be  like  thee. 


RONDEAU. 

Whatever  fleeting  pleasure, 

In  riches  we  discover, 
Oh  they  Ve  a  double  measure, 

Who  share  it  with  a  lover. 

The  heart  which  worships  sordid  pelf, 

True  bliss  can  never  prove, 
Its  wishes  centre  all  in  self, 

The  deadliest  foe  to  love. 

Whatever  fleeting  pleasure,  &c. 

A  generous  act  itself  repays, 

One  beam  of  joy  impart, 
And  millions  of  reflected  rays 

Will  light  the  giver's  heart. 

Whatever  fleeting  pleasure,  &c. 


TO    MARY.  137 


TO  MARY. 

I  fondly  thought  to  call  thee  mine, 

But  we  are  doomed  to  sever ; 
Then  may  the  purest  joys  be  thine, 
If  thou  art  blest,  I  ;ll  not  repine, 
Though  lost  to  me  for  ever. 

May  he  who  holds  thy  plighted  vow, 

Screen  thee  from  every  sorrow  ; 
May  smiles  of  pleasure  light  thy  brow, 
And  joy's  gay  wreath  that  decks  it  now, 
Be  fresher  still  to-morrow. 

Whate'er  my  anguish,  be  thou  blest, 
With  love  and  truth  to  guide  thee, 
Approved,  adored,  beloved,  caressed, 
No  pang  of  sorrow  in  thy  breast, 
No  earthly  joy  denied  thee. 


138  AAV  AY    WITH    CARE    AND    SORROW. 


AWAY  WITH  CAKE  AND  SORROW. 

A   DUETT. 

HE. 

Away  with  care  and  sorrow, 

Let  laughing  hopes  beguile, 
For  every  coming  morrow 

May  wear  a  brighter  smile  ; 
While  Love,  in  playful  measure, 

With  chords  that  never  jar, 
Awakes  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 

SHE. 

But  hopes  are  quickly  blighted, 

For  love  is  apt  to  fly  ; 
And  hearts  to-day  delighted, 

To-morrow  often  sigh  : 
Then  seize  the  fleeting  treasure, 

'T  is  like  a  shooting  star, 
And  wakes  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 


AWAV    WITH    CARE    AND    SORROW.  139 

BOTH. 

If  hope  is  but  a  bubble, 

T  is  still  a  pleasing  toy, 
And  every  passing  trouble, 

But  gives  a  zest  to  joy  ; 
When  Love,  in  playful  measure, 

And  chords  that  never  jar, 
Awakes  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 

HE. 

What  though  a  cloud  of  sadness 

May  flit  across  the  mind, 
A  thousand  beams  of  gladness 

Are  still  concealed  behind  ; 
And  Joy,  in  field  of  azure, 

Again  shall  light  his  star, 
And  wakes  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 

SHE. 

But  should  a  night  of  sorrow, 

AY  hen  dewy  eyes  are  damp, 
Before  the  coming  morrow, 

Extinguish  Cupid's  lamp  ; 
Could  aught  return  the  treasure, 

When  peace  is  fled  afar, 
Or  wake  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar  ? 


140      AWAY  WITH  CARE  AND  SORROW. 
BOTH. 

Though  showers  of  grief  should  dim  it, 

The  torch  of  love  will  burn  ; 
For  tenderness  shall  trim  it, 

Till  smiling  Peace  return  ; 
When  Love,  in  playful  measure, 

With  chords  that  never  jar, 
Shall  wake  the  notes  of  pleasure, 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 

HE. 

A  beamy  smile  of  gladness, 

Like  that  which  greets  me  now, 
Could  chase  the  clouds  of  sadness  : 

From  every  manly  brow. 
It  lights  the  eye  of  azure, 

Like  Love's  delicious  star, 
And  wakes  the  notes  of  pleasure, 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 

SHE. 

When  Music's  notes  are  sounding, 

'Tis  joy  that  lights  the  eye  ; 
For  hearts  are  gayly  bounding, 

So  sweet  the  minutes  fly  ; 
While  Hope,  in  playful  measure, 

With  chords  that  never  jar, 
Awakes  the  notes  of  pleasure 

Along  the  sweet  guitar. 


WRITTEN    IN    MY    NIECE'S    ALBUM.  141 

BOTH. 

Then  hence  with  care  and  sorrow, 

Let  laughing  hopes  beguile, 
For  every  coming  morrow, 

May  wear  a  brighter  smile; 
While  Love,  in  playful  measure, 

With  chords  that  never  jar, 
Awakes  the  notes  of  pleasure, 

AI0112:  the  sweet  guitar. 


WRITTEN  IN  MY  NIECE'S  ALBUM. 

"  Do  write  in  my  album,  clear  uncle !"  you  said  ; 

14  And  what  shall  the  subject  be,  niece  ?" 
You  answered,  "  Whatever  may  pop  in  your  head, 

I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  good  piece." 

Alas  !  how  the  blossoms  of  feeling  decay  ! 

When  life's  vernal  morning  was  young, 
If  Beauty  requested,  I  warbled  a  lay, 

For  love  was  the  theme  that  I  sung. 

But  age  has  extinguished  the  fire  of  my  heart, 
And  clouded  the  light  of  my  brain  ; 

The  joys  we  are  seeking  so  swiftly  depart, 
We  never  can  taste  them  again. 


142  A    TURKISH    SONG. 


A  TURKISH  SONG. 

The  wretch  of  sordid  mould,  who  poises  love 
with  gold, 

And  hugs  the  yellow  store  till  passion's  rage  is 
o'er, 

Can  never  hope  to  prove  the  sweets  of  mutual  love. 

But  oh,  the  generous  youth,  inspired  by  love  and 
truth, 

Who  deems  no  price  too  high,  that  wins  affec- 
tion's sigh, 

'T  is  he  alone  can  move  a  maiden's  heart  to  love. 

A  maiden's  heart  is  cold,  till  touched  with  dart 
of  gold, 

All  feathered  from  the  dove,  and  barbed  by  in- 
fant love  ; 

Its  polished  point  must  be,  the  weapon  of  the  bee. 

Adorned  and  hid  from  view,  by  gems  of  honey- 
dew  ; 

It  then  so  charms  the  eye,  we  deem  no  danger 
nigh, 

Till  deep  within  the  heart  is  felt  the  nectared 
smart. 


AWAKE,    MY    DEAR    JANE.  143 


AWAKE,  MY  DEAR  JANE. 

Through  curtains  of  crimson  and  azure,  my  Jane, 
Infant  day,  in  its  cradle,  is  smiling  again  ; 
Its  eyelids  are  gemed  with  the  dewdropa  of  night, 
Which  glitter  and  sparkle  like  pearls  in  the  light. 
Jane !  sweet  Jane  !  — Awake,  my  dear  Jane  ! 

Oh  list  to  the  warblings  that  float  on  the  air ! 
The  gay-feathered  songsters  are  calling  my  fair  ! 
The  blackbird  and  robin,  the  linnet  and  jay, 
All  join  with  thy  Sandy  to  call  thee  away. 
Jane  !  sweet  Jane  !  —  Awake,  my  dear  Jane  ! 

The  lads  and  the  lasses  are  all  on  the  green, 

The  shepherds   have  chosen  my  Jane   for  their 
queen. 

The  Maypole  is  reared,  and   the   garlands  are 
twined, 

And  a  balm-breathing  wreath  is  for  Jenny  de- 
signed. 
Jane !  sweet  Jane  !  —  Awake,  my  dear  Jane  ! 


144  .    THE    SICILIAN    KNIGHT. 


THE  SICILIAN  KNIGHT. 

Gentle  zephyrs  of  morning  were  stealing 

?Mid  the  dew-spangled  leaves  of  the  grove, 
Where  a  knight  to  his  lady-love  kneeling, 

Breathed  anew  his  professions  of  love. 
While  his  war-steed  impatiently  neighing, 

Chid  the  gallant  young  hero's  delay, 
And  the  loud  bugle's  clamorous  braying, 

Called  the  soldier  to  battle  away. 

Though  she  listened  in  silence,  her  blushes 

Are  confessing  an  answering  flame, 
And  the  sparkling  tear  tenderly  gushes, 

As  he  whispers  of  danger  and  fame. 
One  embrace  —  a  farewell  —  and  't  is  over, 

For  his  fiery  steed  bears  him  afar, 
And  she  prays  to  the  saints  for  her  lover, 

As  he  hies  to  the  Palestine  war. 

Many  months  sighed  the  maid  in  seclusion, 
And  in  dreams  saw  the  chivalrous  youth, 

Plunge  the  Saracen  host  in  confusion, 
In  supporting  the  banner  of  truth. 


TDK    KISS    OF    LOVE.  145 

Ami  (hat  banner  was  guilded  with  glory, 

A.S  it  gleamed  like  a  comet  afar, 
And  the  di'i'iU  are  recorded  in  story, 

He  achieved  at  the  Palestine  war. 

Yet  amid  the  rough  battle's  commotion, 

Would  his  fancy  retreat  to  the  grove, 
Where  he  last  breathed  the  vows  of  devotion, 

To  the  fair  one  who  sanctioned  his  love. 
But  the  rude  din  of  war  is  now  over, 

And  her  champion  returns  from  afar, 
While  she  blesses  the  clay  that  her  lover, 

Boldly  hied  to  the  Palestine  war. 


THE  KISS  OF  LOVE. 

Yes,  e'en  in  parting  there 's  a  pleasure  ! 
One  balmy,  sweet,  redeeming  treasure, 
Long  cherished  in  the  lover's  heart, 
Else  who,  alas  !  could  live  to  part? 
It  is  the  sweet,  confessing  tear, 
It  is  the  tell-tale  sigh  we  hear, 
It  is  the  kiss  of  love  sincere ! 

Thus  lovers,  too,  in  absence,  borrow 
From  memory's  store  a  balm  for  sorrow  ; 
10 


146  HOPE    AND    MEMORY. 

While  Hope,  with  smile  divinely  sweet, 
Still  whispers  of  an  hour  to  meet, 
When  eyes  shall  beam  with  pleasure's  tear, 
While  rapture's  sigh  salutes  the  ear, 
Breathed  in  the  kiss  of  love  sincere  ! 


HOPE  AND  MEMORY. 

Oh  cease,  busy  Fancy,  to  conjure  up  pleasures, 
That  flit  like  bright  phantoms  o'er  memory's 
glass, 

And  teach  us  to  yearn  for  the  forfeited  treasures, 
Which  rise  but  to  mock  us,  so  swiftly  they  pass  ; 

Which  fade  and  dissolve  into  air,  like  a  dream, 

Or  bubbles  that  glitter  and  break  on  the  stream. 

And  yet  it  is  sweet,  in  our  moments  of  sadness, 
To  gaze  on  the  picture  of  former  delights, 

Till  bounding  again  to  the  measure  of  gladness, 
The  heart  has  forgotten  the  sorrow  that  blights, 

And  revels  a  moment  in  joys  that  are  passed, 

But  wakes  to  a  bitterer  pang  than  the  last. 

Yet  Hope  shall  illumine  the  gloom  of  our  sorrow, 
The  cherub  whose  smile  is  a  life-giving  ray  ; 


THE    HARP   THAT    I    STRUNG.  14T 

Whose  flattering  promise  of  brightness  to-morrow, 

With  ruddiness  tinges  the  clouds  of  to-day. 
Though  Memory's  visions  may  heighten  our  pain, 
Yet  Hope's  sunny  smile  can  assuage  it  again. 


THE  HARP  THAT  I  STRUNG. 

The  harp  that  I  strung,  when  it  woke  at  her 
touch, 

How  sweet  were  its  eludings  for  broken  repose  ! 
The  accent  was  plaintive,  my  feelings  were  such, 

And  a  sigh  would  escape  at  each  tremulous 
close. 
It  warbled  like  birds  in  a  tropical  grove, 

Of  scenes  in  the  beauty  of  Eden  arrayed ; 
It  murmured  of  hope,  and  it  whispered  of  love, 

The  harp  that  I  strung  for  the  beautiful  maid. 

The  fingers  of  beauty  were  gracefully  flung 
O'er  chords  which  they  often  had  wakened  to 
song, 
And  I  knew  by  its  tones  't  was  the  harp  that  I 
strung, 
So  sadly,  when  struck,  it  complained  of  the 
wrong. 


148  THE    HAPPY   FAMILY. 

And  such  is  the  heart,  when  its  slumbers  have 
flown, 

And  anguish  or  rapture  its  fibres  invade, 
How  much  it  resembles  in  feeling  and  tone 

The  harp  that  I  strung  for  the  beautiful  maid. 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY. 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED    TO    MISS    MART    G.  T N, 

OF    HEMPSTEAD,    L.    I. 

Hempstead,  sweet,  "  lovely  village  of  the  plain?* 
For  thee  the  Muse  would  weave  a  grateful  strain; 
For  erst  around  thy  glowing  scenes  I  strayed, 
When  summer's  flowery  garb  thy  form  arrayed  ; 
A  stranger  and  an  invalid  I  came, 
For  fell  disease  had  paralyzed  my  frame  ; 
But  here,  I  met  with  friends  whose  hearts  could  feel 
For  wounded  spirits  that  no  art  could  heal ; 
Cherished  by  them,  I  snatched  a  short  repose, 
In  calm  forgetful n ess  of  all  my  woes  ; 
And  almost  felt,  beneath  one  friendly  dome, 
The  lost  felicities  and  joys  of  home. 

For  one  blessed  mansion,  Mary,  still  presents 
An  Eden  of  pure  love  and  innocence, 
The  Happy  Family"  par  excellence. 


TO    MISS    HARRIET    T N.  149 

Thy  smile  still  lights  it  —  Mary,  'tis  thy  sire's, 
Thy  own  paternal  roof,  which  oft  inspires 
Such  aspirations  as  my  doubts  beguile  ; 
*  Oil,  that  a  home  like  this  for  me  would  smile !" 
The  very  wish  can  chase  the  cloud  of  care, 
And  hope  half  mingles  with  the  minstrel's  prayer. 


TO  MISS  HARRIET  T N, 

OF   HEMPSTEAD,    L.    I. 

My  left  side  suffers  —  yet  I  find 

The  heart  retains  its  former  station, 
And  warmly  throbs,  whene'er  the  mind 

Reverts  to  one  dear  habitation. 
The  mind,  too,  suffers  ;  for  the  power 

Of  memory  is  paralyzed  ; 
And  only  dimly  marks  the  hour 

Which  erst  so  tenderly  I  prized. 

When  in  that  habitation  nursed, 

By  Friendship's  warm  and  tender  care, 
I  said  that  fate  might  do  its  worst  — 

Soothed  by  such  friends,  I  'd  learn  to  bear ! 
When  cheered  by  Harriet's  laughing  eyes, 

I  nearly  lost  the  sense  of  pain  ; 
But  fettered  memory  hourly  tries 

To  sketch  that  watching  look,  in  vain. 


150  TO    MISS    MARY-   JANE    Y G. 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  I  have  a  heart, 

For  I  can  often  feel  it  beat, 
Just  as  in  youth  it  used  to  start, 

When  beauty's  glance  I  chanced  to  meet. 
But  youth  and  health,  alas  !  are  gone ! 

They  were  not  prized  enough  when  mine, 
And  I  were  now  a  wretch  forlorn, 

But  for  the  loves  that  round  me  twine. 

Wife,  children,  friends  ! — All-bounteous  Heaven  ! 

I  humbly  thank  thee,  from  my  heart, 
For  these  blessed  joys,  which  thou  hast  given, 

Sweet  solace  for  affliction's  smart. 
Oh,  yes,  for  these  I  would  endure, 

Were  it  thy  will,  another  life, 
As  painful  as  the  past  —  as  poor  ! 

But  grant  me  still  my  present  wife. 


TO  MISS  MARY  JANE  Y G, 

OF    GREENSBURGH,    PA. 

Our  earth  is  but  a  verdant  isle, 
That  floats  on  the  ethereal  tide, 

Basking  in  Sol's  life-giving  smile, 
It  can  not  leave  its  parent's  side  ; 

Their  tie  is  love  —  alas  !  the  pain 

Of  separation,  Mary  Jane  ! 


i 


TO    MISS    MART    JANE    Y G.  151 

And  here  I  sonic-times  meet  a  form 
That  I  have  never  seen  before  — 

Some  shipwrecked  sylph,  escaped  the  storm 
That  drove  her  on  our  sea-girt  shore, 

While  crossing  ether's  trackless  main, 

From  Eden's  confines,  Mary  Jane. 

I  greet  her  as  an  angel,  strayed 

From  the  fair  regions  of  the  blessed, 

And  welcome  the  celestial  maid, 
Entreating  her  to  be  my  guest. 

If  she  consent  —  alas  !  the  pain 

Of  parting  with  her,  Mary  Jane! 

Thy  form  is  such,  and  late  thy  smile  — 
That  smile  of  witching  innocence ! — 

Illumined  my  dwelling  for  awhile, 
Till  love  and  duty  called  thee  hence. 

My  wife,  a  sister-sylph,  in  vain 

Prayed  thee  to  tarry,  Mary  Jane. 

It  could  not  be  !  and  thus  't  is  ever 
Our  fate,  from  those  we  love,  to  sever. 
But,  ah !  such  pangs  are  wisely  given, 
Lest  we  forget  to  seek  for  heaven  ; 
For  there,  in  realms  unknown  to  pain, 
We  yet  shall  meet  thee,  Mary  Jane. 


152  EPITHALAMIUM. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

ON    THE    MARRIAGE    OF   M.    M.    MARTIN,    ESQ.,    TO   MIS; 
JANE    IRWIN. 

The  flame  that  burns  on  Hymen's  shrine, 

If  fanned  by  Cupid's  fragrant  breath, 
For  ever  glows  a  light  divine, 

That  brightens  at  the  touch  of  death. 
For  true  connubial  love  for  ever 

Through  kindred  hearts  incessant  rolls, 
And  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  can  sever 

The  cord  that  joins  congenial  souls. 

The  nuptial  couch  is  heaven  on  earth, 

If  truth  and  purity  be  there  ; 
'T  is  not  in  words  to  speak  its  worth  — 

Angelic  harps  its  bliss  declare. 
There  heavenly  love  with  wisdom  meets, 

There  fond  affection  joins  with  truth, 
To  revel  in  ambrosial  sweets, 

An  Eden  of  immortal  youth. 

Thrice  happy  pair !  may  fadeless  verdure 
The  Martin's  favorite  Marsh  adorn  ; 

Thrice  happy  pair  !  for  angels  heard  your 
Pledge  upon  the  nuptial  morn. 


LOVES    SHE    LIKE    ME?  153 

Be  happy  still,  till  joys  supernal, 

Immortal  in  your  bosoms  rise, 
For  Hymen's  sweets  will  bloom  eternal, 

To  bless  your  loves  beyond  the  skies. 


LOVES  SHE  LIKE  ME? 

Oh  say,  my  fluttering  heart, 

Loves  she  like  me  ? 
Is  her's  thy  counterpart  — 

Throbs  it  like  thee  ? 
Does  she  remember  yet, 
The  spot  where  first  we  met, 
Which  I  shall  ne'er  forget  ? 

Loves  she  like  me  ? 

Soft  echoes  still  repeat, 

il  Loves  she  like  me  V 
When  on  that  mossy  seat, 

Beneath  the  tree, 
I  wake  my  amorous  lay, 
While  lambkins  round  me  play, 
And  whispering  zephyrs  say, 
Loves  she  like  me  ? 

On  her  I  think  by  day, 
Loves  she  like  me  ? 


154  I    SIGH    NOT    FOR   GLORY. 

With  her  in  dreams  I  stray, 

O'er  mead  or  lea. 

My  hopes  of  earthly  bliss 

Are  all  comprised  in  this, 

To  share  her  nuptial  kiss  ? 

Loves  she  like  me  ? 

Does  absence  give  her  pain  ? 

Loves  she  like  me  ? 
And  does  she  thus  arraign 

Fortune's  decree  ? 
Does  she  my  name  repeat? 
Will  she  with  rapture  greet 
The  hour  that  sees  us  meet  ? 

Loves  she  like  me  ? 


I  SIGH  NOT  FOR  GLORY. 

I  sigh  not  for  glory  to  dazzle  the  crowd, 
I  ask  not  for  fortune  to  strut  with  the  proud, 
I  covet  no  title  of  any  degree, 
Except,  my  clear  Rosa,  a  title  to  thee. 
But  yet  if  the  fates  have  unkindly  ordained, 
That  these  must  be  mine  ere  thy  hand  is  obtained, 
Inspired  by  the  smiling  young  hopes  which  I 

cherish, 
I  '11  ask  them,  and  win  them,  dear  Rosa,  or  perish. 


LADY,  ACCEPT  THIS  LITTLE  BOOK.     155 


TO  A  LADY, 

ON    PARTING    WITH    A    COPY    OF    THE    "  DEWDROPS." 

Adieu,  gentle  fair !  and  till  fate  shall  decree 
Again  to  restore  thee  to  friendship  and  me, 
Accept  of  this  token  of  brotherly  love, 
The  "Dewdrops"  of  mercy  distilled  from  above. 

And  when  the  sad  period  of  absence  is  past, 
And  those  thou  art  leaving  embrace  thee  at  last, 
Xo  tears  of  regret  shall  their  rapture  annoy, 
But  Dewdrops  shall  sparkle  in  sunbeams  of  joy. 


LADY,  ACCEPT  THIS  LITTLE  BOOK. 

Lady,  accept  this  little  book, 

A  trifling  token  of  regard, 
And  when  upon  these  lines  you  look, 

Bestow  one  thought  upon  the  bard. 
"Tis  friendship  prompts  the  humble  lay, 

From  flattery's  heartless  fictions  free, 
Which  only  simply  means  to  say, 

He  dedicates  the  book  to  thee. 


156  YES,    LOVE    HAS    ITS    SORROWS. 

The  morn  of  life  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  childhood's  path  is  strewed  with  flowers, 
While  fragrant  gems  of  sparkling  light, 

Are  scattered  from  the  light-winged  hours. 
Youth  revels  in  the  Eden  scene, 

Diversified  with  hills  and  slope, 
And  strays  among  the  arbors  green, 

Led  by  the  hand  of  smiling  hope. 

But  disappointment's  chilling  blast, 

On  passion's  wave  destructive  beat, 
Ere  mid-day  comes,  too  often  cast, 

The  blighted  beauties  at  our  feet. 
Yet,  still,  dear  girl,  whate'er  betide, 

Though  flowers  may  fade  as  soon  as  blown, 
Let  virtue  be  thy  constant  guide, 

And  happiness  thy  own. 


YES,  LOVE  HAS  ITS  SORROWS. 

Yes,  love  has  its  sorrows,  but  who  would  refuse  'em, 
So  mingled  with  rapture  and  joy  ? 

What  mortal  the  rose   would  discard  from  his 
bosom, 
For  fear  that  it's  thorns  might  annoy  ? 


THE    LOCK    OF    HAIR.  157 


THE  LOCK  OF  HAIR. 

Yes,  it  is  mine  —  that  ringlet  token, 

That  raven  lock  of  glossy  shine, 
What  transport  has  the  pledge  awoken, 

In  this  enraptured  heart  of  mine  ; 
And  next  my  heart  the  gift  I'll  wear, 

That  heart  with  pure  affection  swelling, 
And  thus  a  lock  of  angel's  hair, 

Will  then  be  near  an  angel's  dwelling. 

Oh  tell  me  not  that  hopes  delusive, 

Or  joys  unreal  my  fancy  mock, 
When  doubts  require  a  proof  conclusive, 

I  '11  look  upon  this  raven  lock. 
Or  if  it  all  illusion  be, 

My  heart  with  joy  is  so  elated, 
I'd  hug  it  still  in  ecstacy, 

Nor  wish  the  error  dissipated. 


158  MY    CARD-RACK. 


MY  CARD-RACK. 

TO    THE    FAIR   ARTIST    IN    SHELLWORK,    WHO    MADE 
THEM   FOR   FAIRS. 

Oh  !  Fancy 's  pencil  never  traced, 

Nor  Art's  inventive  powers  designed, 
Such  beauty,  genius,  wit,  and  taste, 

In  one  sweet  portraiture  combined. 
When  at  the  fair  you  charmed  our  eyes, 

Each  candid  heart  acknowledged  there, 
That  justice  must  award  the  prize 

To  you,  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 

That  hour  is  past  —  but  memory  oft, 

Pictures  the  glowing  scene  anew, 
That  speaking  glance,  so  bright  and  soft, 

And  all  the  charms  that  circled  you. 
But  when  I  gaze  on  those  dear  shells, 

Which  nought  on  earth  could  purchase  back, 
With  hope  and  fear  my  bosom  swells, 

For  doubts  still  keep  me  on  the  rack. 

But  I  will  hope,  and  persevere, 
Dangers  and  obstacles  despise, 


LOVE.  159 


As  sportmen,  who  pursue  the  deer, 
Hazard  existence  for  the  prize. 

But  had  I  one  sharp-pointed  dart, 
With  Cupid's  skill  and  Cupid's  bow, 

I  }d  pierce  one  little  bounding  hart, 
And  mine  should  be  the  timid  Roe. 


LOVE. 

Love,  gentle  fair,  can  boast  a  source  divine, 
Whatever  be  its  earthly  form  and  feature, 
It  flows  like  Sol's  life-giving  beams  benign, 
From  the  Creator  to  the  humblest  creature. 
It  is  the  very  life  and  soul, 

Of  all  that  live,  and  breathe,  and  move  ; 
There 's  not  a  pulse  from  pole  to  pole 
But  vibrates  solely  from  the  power  of  love. 
The  largest  form,  the  smallest  thing, 

That  Nature's  boundless  kingdom  holds, 
Whether  it  move  by  feet  or  wing, 
Or  finny  oar,  or  sinuous  folds  ; 
All,  all  exist  on  this  mysterious  plan, 
From  viewless  insects  up  to  lordly  man. 

Love,  in  its  essence,  ever  flows  the  same, 
But  when  recipient  vessels  are  defiled, 


160  LOVE. 

They  change  its  nature,  purity,  and  aim, 
To  earthly  passions,  selfish,  fierce,  and  wild  ; 

To  envy,  malice,  covetous  desire, 

Revenge,  ambition,  pride,  and  jealous  ire, 

Till  Love's  benignant,  pure,  celestial  flame, 
Is  thus  converted  to  infernal  fire ! 

Not  so,  in  hearts  like  thine,  my  fair, 

Guarded  by  knowledge,  truth,  and  reason, 
For  vice  can  find  no  entrance  there, 
By  open  force,  or  subtle  treason. 

Such  hearts,  like  mirrors,  catch  the  rays 

Of  Love's  benignant  flame, 
Reflecting  back  a  milder  blaze, 
Of  humble  gratitude  and  praise, 

To  bless  the  giver's  name. 
They  throw  around  inspiring  gleams 
Of  bliss  that  angels  taste  above, 
And  these  are  but  reflected  beams 
From  the  pure  flame  of  love. 
But  if  a  true,  congenial  heart, 

Of  firmer  texture,  catch  its  light, 
Into  one  focal  point  will  dart 

The  rays  of  both,  and  there  unite. 
Resign  the  lens  to  Cupid's  care, 

While  Hymen's  torch  shall  blaze  above  : 
Such  be  thy  happy  lot,  my  fair, 
For  this  will  be  connubial  love. 


THE    WHITE    COTTAGE.  161 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE. 

Thou  peaceful  cot  beneath  whose  roof 

The  calmest,  purest  joys  are  mine ; 
Where  sweetest  smiles,  affection's  proof, 
Their  sunny  rays,  for  my  behoof, 

With  mildest,  purest,  lustre  shine. 
No  pilgrim  of  the  stormy  main, 

Enters  his  haven  writh  such  joy 
As  fills  my  bosom,  when  I  gain 
Thy  evening  shelter,  and  obtain 

The  kiss  of  welcome  from  my  boy. 

Thy  snow-white  walls  —  the  lattice  green, 

Which  veils  each  modest  eye  of  thine  ; 
The  trees  which  throw  their  shade  between, 
On  which  the  ripening  fruit  is  seen, 

The  gay,  rose  melons,  and  the  vine  — 
All  —  all  delight  me  —  but  the  door 

Admits  me  to  a  heaven  within  ; 
No  fretted  ceiling,  fitted  floor, 
Nor  gorgeous  trappings— but  there  's  more 

Of  real  bliss  than  monarchs  win. 
11 


162  THE    WHITE    COTTAGE. 

Connubial  joys  and  filial  love 

Await  my  evening  welcome  home  — 
Delights  the  virtuous  prize  above 
The  brightest  chaplets  ever  wove 

For  demigods  of  Greece  or  Rome. 
This  is  my  empire  —  here  enthroned, 

I  envy  not  the  proudest  king ; 
My  sceptre  ne'er  can  be  disowned, 
For  hearts  of  love,  the  sweetest  toned, 

To  me  their  joyful  anthems  sing. 

Yes,  dear  loved  cottage,  while  beneath 

Thy  humble  roof  true  bliss  is  mine, 
The  votive  chaplet  I  will  wreath, 
And  here  my  grateful  numbers  breathe, 

To  thank  the  Giver's  hand  divine. 
The  charms  of  palace,  tower,  or  dome, 

With  guilded  pomp,  I  covet  not ; 
Thou,  dear  "  White  Cottage"  art  my  home, 
From  hence  I  never  wish  to  roam ; 

Content  can  gild  the  humblest  lot. 


AUTUMNAL    REFLECTIONS.  163 


AUTUMNAL  REFLECTIONS. 

The  season  of  flowers  is  fled, 
The  pride  of  the  garden  decayed, 

The  sweets  of  the  meadow  are  dead, 
And  the  blushing  parterre  disarrayed. 

The  blossom-decked  garb  of  sweet  May, 
Enamelled  with  hues  of  delight, 

Is  exchanged  for  a  mantle  less  gay, 
And  spangled  with  colors  less  bright. 

For  sober  Pomona  has  won 
The  frolicsome  Flora's  domains, 

And  the  work  the  gay  goddess  begun, 
The  height  of  maturity  gains. 

But  though  less  delightful  to  view, 
The  charms  of  ripe  Autumn  appear, 

Than  Spring's  richly  varied  hue, 
That  infantile  age  of  the  year. 

Yet  now,  and  now  only,  we  prove 
The  uses  by  Nature  designed  ; 


164  AUTUMNAL    REFLECTIONS. 

The  seasons  were  sanctioned  to  move, 
To  please  less  than  profit  mankind. 

Regret  the  lost  beauties  of  May, 

But  the  fruits  of  those  beauties  enjoy  ; 

The  blushes  that  dawn  with  the  day, 
Xoon's  splendor  will  ever  destroy. 

How  pleasing,  how  lovely  appears 
Sweet  infancy,  sportive  and  gay ; 

Its  prattle,  its  smiles,  and  its  tears, 
Like  spring,  or  the  dawning  of  day  ! 

But  manhood's  the  season  designed 
For  wisdom,  for  works,  and  for  use  ; 

To  ripen  the  fruits  of  the  mind, 

Which  the  seeds  sown  in  childhood  produce. 

Then  infancy's  pleasures  regret, 

But  the  fruits  of  those  pleasures  enjoy; 

Does  spring  autumn's  bounty  beget  ? 
Lo  the  Man  is  begun  in  the  Boy. 


MARY'      GRAVE.  165 


MARY'S  GRAVE. 

Let  those  whose  hearts  have  learned  to  glow 
With  love  that  ne'er  can  change  or  vary, 

Permit  one  pitying  tear  to  flow 

O'er  the  cold  grave  of  hapless  Mary. 

She  loved,  alas  !  a  treacherous  youth, 
'Who  feigned  to  love  the  artless  fairy  ; 

Too  late  she  proved  him  void  of  truth, 
And  death  relieved  the  hapless  Mary. 

No  more  she  shines  the  queen  of  May, 
Nor  graces  more  the  rustic  dairy, 

For  ah  !  the  spoiler  bore  away 
The  rifled  sweets  of  hapless  Mary. 

Oh  then,  ye  artless  nymphs,  beware  ! 

In  trusting  faithless  man,  be  wary, 
And  thus  escape  the  fiend  Despair, 

That  dug  the  grave  of  hapless  Mary. 


1 06  THE    ORPHAN    MAID. 


THE  ORPHAN  MAID. 

How  hard  the  maiden  orphan's  fate, 

Whose  early  joys  and  hopes  are  fled, 
Who  vainly  asks  the  rich  and  great 

For  leave  to  earn  her  daily  bread ! 
Exposed  to  frowns,  rebukes,  and  sneers, 

In  humble  menial  garb  arrayed, 
While  heartless  fools  deride  her  tears, 

And  spurn  the  hapless  orphan  maid. 

There  was  a  time  —  alas  !  ?t  is  fled  — 

When  fortune,  friends,  and  kindred  smiled, 
When  sunny  rays  of  joy  were  shed 

Around  the  gay  and  happy  child; 
When,  shielded  by  parental  care, 

No  pang  of  sorrow  dared  invade, 
Save  when  she  saw  the  meek  despair 

Of  some  poor  hapless  orphan  maid. 

But  ah  !  her  parents  died,  and  left 
Their  darling,  unprotected  child, 

Of  fortune,  friends,  and  joy  bereft, 
And  then  the  maiden  never  smiled. 


"  IRY    A XX.  167 

She  only  asked  to  toil  for  bread, 

She  sought  no  unrequited  aid  — 
But  asked  in  vain !  —  till  hope  was  fled, 

And  death  relieved  the  orphan  maid ! 


TO  MARY  ANN. 

Dear  Mary  Ann,  the  sparkling  gems, 

Which  deck  the  brow  of  even, 
Are  rayless,  to  the  diadems 
And  jewels  on  the  garment  hems 
Of  sainted  maids  in  heaven. 

The  fleecy  n:ow,  so  pure  and  white,  . 

By  winds  of  winter  driven, 
Is  darker  than  the  shades  of  night, 
To  those  celestial  robes  of  light 

Which  clothe  the  nymphs  of  heaven. 

No  banquet  e'er  by  mortal  spread, 

No  feast  by  monarch  given, 
Can  match  the  living  wine  and  bread, 
With  which  the  virgin  train  are  fed, 
Who  crowd  the  courts  of  heaven. 

The  crown,  the  robe,  the  feast  be  thine 
To  all  who  ask,  they  're  given  ; 


168         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  jewels,  gems,  the  bread  and  wine, 
Will  fill  thee  with  that  flame  divine, 
Which  lights  the  maids  of  heaven. 

Thine  be  the  pearl  of  nameless  worth, 

By  Christ  alone  't  is  given  — 
And  though  we  never  meet  on  earth, 
If  we  obtain  the  second  birth, 
Thou  'It  kiss  the  bard  in  heaven. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  HEART. 

WRITTEN    IN    A    YOUNG    LADY'S    ALBUM. 

Thy  mind  is  an  album,  unsullied  and  bright, 
Just  opened  —  for  angels  and  spirits  to  write 
Each  thought  and  affection,  intent  and  desire, 
That  wisdom  may  sanction  —  that  love  may  in- 
spire. 

The  book  is  immortal  —  Oh  guard  it  with  care, 
Lest  demons  should  sully  its  pages  so  fair  ; 
Repulse  such  intruders,  nor  shrink  from  the  strife, 
And  Jesus  will  smile  on  the  "Book  of  thy  life." 


FOR    VIOLA'S    ALBUM.  169 


FOR  VIOLA'S  ALBUM. 

Yes,  I  would  acid  one  humble  leaf, 

To  the  bright  chaplet  thou  art  twining, 
But  ah  !  its  verdure  will  be  brief, 
For  time  is  such  an  errant  thief, 
He  blights  the  sweetest  buds  with  grief, 
And  leaves  the  fairest  flower  declining. 

But  there 's  a  wreath,  that  ne'er  can  fade, 

Already  for  thy  temples  twined, 
Such  as  in  heaven  the  angels  braid, 
To  deck  the  brows  of  every  maid, 
Who,  like  Yiola,  here  displayed 
The  beauties  of  a  cultured  mind. 

That  wreath  shall  deck  Viola's  brow, 

In  realms  unknown  to  time  or  grief, 

And  each  young  plant  she  cultures  now, 

Each  infant  mind  her  toils  endow, 

Will  breathe  to  heaven  a  fragrant  vow, 

Brightening  the  tints  of  every  leaf. 


170  DUETT. 


DUETT. 

SHE. 

When  grief  the  heart  benumbs, 
How  the  pulses  languish ! 

HE. 

Hope,  like  a  cherub,  conies, 
Then  we  lose  the  anguish. 

SHE. 

Here,  late,  were  clouds  of  gloom, 
All  the  scene  surrounding  ; 

HE. 

Now  all  is  dressed  in  bloom, 
Hearts  are  gayly  bounding. 

BOTH. 

Still,  then,  in  pleasure's  bower, 
Let  us  rove  delighted  ; 

Joy  is  a  transient  flower, 
Taste  it  ere  't  is  blighted. 

SHE. 

Should  dark  despair  return 
On  the  coming  morrow, 


TO    ELIZA.  171 

HE. 

Love's  torch  will  brighter  burn 
'Mid  the  gloom  of  sorrow. 

SHE. 

Love  may  himself  decamp, 
In  the  hour  of  sadness  ; 

HE. 

Then  feed  the  urchin's  lamp 
With  the  oil  of  gladness. 

BOTH. 

Thus,  here,  in  pleasure's  bower, 

Let  us  rove  delighted  ; 
Joy  is  a  transient  flower, 

Taste  it,  ere  't  is  blighted. 


TO  ELIZA. 

And  wilt  thou  think  of  him  who  traced 

This  tributary  lay, 
Or  will  his  image  be  effaced, 
As  foot-prints  in  the  dew  are  chased 

By  the  next  solar  ray  ? 
Can  memory's  light  become  so  dim, 
That  thou  wilt  not  remember  him  ? 


172  TO    A    YOUNG    LADY. 

I  will  not  libel  thus  a  heart, 

Where  every  grace  resides, 
Where  modest  nature,  void  of  art, 
Directed  still  by  virtue's  chart, 
In  peerless  state  presides  : 
She  shall  thy  silent  prompter  be, 
Sometimes,  dear  girl,  to  think  of  me. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Could  any  charm  have  broke  the  spell, 

That  long  has  chained  my  humble  lyre, 
Thy  smile  had  waked  the  silent  shell, 
And  taught  its  sweetest  notes  to  swell 
With  pure  poetic  fire. 

But,  oh  !  its  chords  are  sleeping  still, 

And  e'en  thy  charms  must  plead  in  vain  ; 
This  heart  has  lost  its  wonted  thrill, 
Intruding  cares  its  fervors  chill, 
And  check  its  votive  strain. 


PHI     SILENT    CONFESSION.  173 


THE  SILENT  CONFESSION. 

TO   A    LADY,    WHO    ASKED    THE    AUTHOR    IF    HE    COULD 
INTERPRET    A    BLUSH    THAT    HE    HAD    NOTED. 

Oh  yes,  't  was  a  fervor  of  feeling, 

That  gushed  like  a  stream  from  the  heart, 
And  flew  through  the  pulses,  revealing 

What  language  could  never  impart. 
It  gave  to  that  frame  an  emotion, 

Which  sweetly  the  feeling  confessed  ; 
A  zephyr  might  breathe  on  the  ocean, 

And  wake  such  a  swell  on  its  breast. 

The  glow  of  thy  visage  expressed  it, 

'T  was  borne  to  my  heart  in  a  sigh  ; 
An  eloquent  silence  confessed  it, 

It  spoke  in  the  glance  of  thine  eye. 
In  short,  't  was  the  soul  of  my  treasure, 

Aroused  in  alarm  from  its  sleep, 
That  flew  to  those  windows  of  azure, 

And  lifted  their  curtains  to  peep. 


174 


OH    SAY,    CAN    THIS    BE    LOVE  JT 


OH  SAY,  CAN  THIS  BE  LOVE? 

Why  does  my  heart  so  strangely  start, 

Each  pulse  so  wildly  play  ? 
Why  can  not  willing  lips  impart 

What  feeling  bids  them  say ;  — 
Cease,  busy  heart !  —  Can  this  be  love  ? 

Why  do  n't  the  trembler  rest  ? 
Why  does  it  throb  as  if  a  dove 

Were  caged  within  my  breast  ? 
'T  is  not  the  throb  of  anguish  — 

It  can  not  fatal  prove  — 
And  yet  I  sigh  and  languish ! 

Oh  say,  can  this  be  love  ? 


Cease,  busy  heart !  — Why  throbs  it  so, 

With  such  an  anxious  thrill  ? 
It  seems  to  have  a  fever's  glow, 

And  yet  I  am  not  ill ! 
Warm  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  flame, 

Its  light  illumes  my  eye  ; 
Still,  if  my  lips  attempt  the  name, 

Tis  whispered  in  a  sigh. 


KATHLEEN    O'MOORE.  175 

,rT  is  not  the  sigh  of  anguish  — 

So  that  can  nothing  prove, 
And  yet  I  daily  languish  — 

Oh  say,  can  this  be  love  ? 


KATHLEEN  O'MOORE. 

She  hung  on  my  bosom,  and  vowed  to  be  true, 
As  I  kissed  off  a  tear-drop,  and  murmured  adieu  ; 

Then,  slow  and  sad-hearted, 

From  Kathleen  I  parted, 

From  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

I  tore  myself  from  her,  and  left  her  in  tears, 
With  a  pang  at  my  heart  yet  remembered  for  years, 

Though  hope  was  repeating 

A  promise  of  meeting 

With  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

?Twas  eve,  and  the  moon  brightly  smiled  on  the  spot, 
As  I  lingered,  to  gaze  yet  again  on  the  cot 

That  held  the  dear  treasure 

I  loved  without  measure, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 


no  to  a . 

And  hope  fondly  whispered,  with  flattering  tone, 
That  I  shortly  might  call  the  dear  treasure  my  own ; 

But  hope  has  deceived  me, 

For  fate  has  bereaved  me 

Of  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

A  richer  swain  wooed,  and  she  smiled  on  his  plea, 
And  she  gave  him  the  hand  she  had  plighted  to  me, 

And  left  me  to  languish, 

With  heart-rending  anguish, 

For  Kathleen  O'Moore. 


TO  A- 


When  that  soft,  beaming  eye  reviews 
This  grateful  tribute  of  the  Muse, 
Those  coral  lips  must  not  refuse 

One  little  word  to  frame ; 
And  be  the  little  word  they  choose, 

The  Poet's  name. 

Oh  breathe  but  that,  in  one  soft  sigh, 
Whene'er  these  couplets  meet  thine  eye, 
And  Zephyr,  as  he  flutters  by, 

Shall  bear  the  sigh  to  me, 
And  whisper  in  thine  ear,  that  I 

Remember  thee. 


to  ian mi:.  171 


TO  IANTHE. 

Iaxthe,  could  I  touch  the  lyre, 

With  magic  art  like  thine, 
I  Yl  wake  the  spirit-breathing  wire 
To  thoughts  of  light  and  tones  of  fire, 
Like  those  which,  breathed  by  thee,  inspire 

This  raptured  heart  of  mine. 
And  I  would  still  the  lay  prolong, 

And  oft  the  strain  repeat, 
To  tell  how  much  I  love  thy  song, 

Its  numbers  are  so  sweet. 


I've  marked  thee  — ere  a  dozen  springs 

Had  bloomed  upon  thy  cheek, 
When,  buoyant  on  her  glittering  wings, 
Thy  infant  fancy  warbled  things 
Such  delicate  imaginings, 

As  poesy  can  speak. 
Twas  genius,  uncontrolled  by  art, 

And  reckless  of  defeat, 
I  heard  the  lay,  it  touched  my  heart, 

'T  was  wild  and  simply  sweet. 
12 


178  TO    IANTHE. 

I  marked  the  next,  with  cultured  mind, 

In  all  the  charms  of  youth, 
And  knew  thy  lovely  form  enshrined 
A  heart  which  every  grace  combined, 
By  native  taste  and  art  refined, 

The  pure  abode  of  truth. 
Then,  when  I  listened  to  thy  lay, 

Each  pulse  with  rapture  beat, 
It  seemed  to  bear  the  soul  away, 

'T  was  exquisitely  sweet. 

Another  heard  —  the  one  alone 

Whose  wrorth  inspired  the  strain  ; 
Whose  manly  heart  is  honor's  throne, 
Who  breathed  a  sigh  for  every  tone, 
And  made  his  modest  wishes  known, 

Nor  did  he  plead  in  vain. 
And  when  a  wife  —  I  heard  thee  still 

The  matchless  strain  repeat ; 
How  must  his  heart  with  transport  thrill  !- 

'T  was  ravishingly  sweet. 

And  is  there  yet  a  tenderer  tie 

To  twine  Ianthe's  heart? 
Can  warmer  feelings  light  her  eye, 
And  bid  her  pulses  quicker  fly  ? 
Can  any  other's  smile  or  sigh 

Such  ecstasies  impart  ? 


IHK    ADIEU.  I  »  J 


There  can  —  an  infant's  smile  inspire 
A  strain  with  joy  replete  ; 

A  mother's  love  attunes  the  lyre — 
T  is  now  divinely  sweet ! 


SMILE  OF  AFFECTION. 

Is  there  a  light  whose  effulgence  can  dry 
The  tear  of  affliction,  and  rapture  restore  ? 

'T  is  the  bright,  sunny  ray  of  a  love-beam  eye, 
The  smile  of  affection  from  one  I  adore. 


I  'd  sigh  not  for  grandeur,  for  fame,  or  for  wealth, 
But,  thankful  for  little,  would  wish  for  no  more, 

If  blest  with  a  cottage,  with  friendship,  and  health, 
And  the  smile  of  affection  from  one  I  adore. 


THE  ADIEU. 

Oh,  green  was  the  poplar,  when,  under  its  shade, 
I  exchanged  the  soft  vow  with  my  shepherdess 

maid; 
But  winter  soon  blighted  its  sweet  summer  hue, 
So  faded  hope  when  I  bade  Lilla  adieu. 


180  THE    ADIEU. 

Be  constant,  I  sighed,  till  thy  Damon  return, 
For  still  this  fond  bosom  for  Lilla  will  burn  ; 
My  heart,  like  the  compass,  to  love  shall  be  true, 
She  wept,  as  I  murmured  —  dear  Lilla,  adieu  ! 

But  doomed  was  my  Lilla  another  to  bless, 
And  doomed  is  her  Damon  to  pine  in  distress  ; 
Like  leaves  of  the  poplar,  which  tempests  then 

strew, 
My  hopes  were  all  scattered  —  so,  Lilla,  adieu! 

The  spring  soon  returned,  and  the  poplar  was  drest, 
But  peace  had  for  ever  forsaken  my  breast  ; 
From  the  music  of  nature  no  comfort  I  drew, 
For  the  birds  and  the  streams  murmured,  Lilla, 
adieu  ! 

When,  torn  by  my  sorrows,  I  bow  to  my  doom, 
Will  a  tear  from  my  Lilla  e'er  fall  on  my  tomb  ? 
When  the  leaves  on  the  poplar  are  blast  and  few, 
They  '11  sigh  in  the  breeze,  dearest  Lilla,  adieu ! 


RELIGIOUS  AND  ELEGIAC. 


THE  NATIVITY. 


Strike  the  loud  anthem,  to  hail  the  blest  morning, 

Jesus  the  Saviour  an  infant  appears  ; 
Lo !  in  the  East,  a  new  day-spring  is  dawning  ! 
Hark !  the  glad  tidings  which  sound  in  our  ears! 
On  this  auspicious  morn, 
To  us  a  child  is  born, 
Glory  to  God  in  the  highest  be  given ; 
Hail  our  Redeemer's  birth  — 
Good  will  and  peace  on  earth  — 
Man  shall  again  have  conjunction  with  Heaven. 

Hark !  ?t  was  the  voice  of  a  seraph  that  sounded  — 
Shepherds  of  Judea  start  with  surprise, 

While,  with  a  radiance  of  glory  surrounded, 
Troops  of  bright  angels  descend  from  the  skies. 


182  THE    INCARNATION. 

Now  loud  the  choral  strain 
Swells  round  the  happy  plain, 
Glory  to  God  in  the  highest  be  given  ; 
Hail  our  Redeemer's  birth  — 
Good  will  and  peace  on  earth  — 
Man  shall  again  have  conjunction  with  Heaven. 

Hail  to  the  Saviour,  descending  from  heaven, 

To  build  him  a  kingdom  which  never  shall  cease ; 
The  Child  that  is  bom  and  the  Son  that  is  given, 
Is  God  everlasting,  the  great  Prince  of  Peace. 
Praise  him  with  grateful  lays, 
Pour  forth  the  soul  in  praise  ; 
The  government  rests  on  his  shoulders  alone  : 
In  him  the  Godhead  dwells 
Which  has  subdued  the  hells  ; 
And  God  the  Creator  as  Jesus  is  known. 


THE  INCARNATION. 

Oh  for  a  Seraph's  golden  lyre, 

With  chords  of  light,  and  tones  of  fire, 

To  siug  that  wondrous  love 
Which  brought  a  Deity  below, 
To  save  an  erring  race  from  wo, 

And  give  them  joys  above. 


THE    [NCARNATION.  183 

Oh  1 1 1 : i \  thai  love  inspire  my  soul, 
Till  such  ecstatic  numbers  roll, 

As  are  by  augels  given  ; 
To  tell  Redemption's  wondrous  plan, 
How  Heaven  descended  down  to  man, 

That  man  might  rise  to  heaven. 

His  creatures  fell  —  no  pitying  eye, 
No  powerful  arm  to  save,  was  nigh, 

Or  aid  our  feeble  powers  ; 
He  saw  —  lie  came  —  he  fought  alone, 
And  conquered  evils  not  his  own, 

That  we  might  conquer  ours. 

Temptation's  thorny  path  he  trod, 
In  form,  a  man  —  in  soul,  a  God, 

And  trod  the  path  alone  ; 
In  vain  the  direst  fiends  assailed, 
His  mighty  arm  of  power  prevailed, 

And  hell  was  overthrown. 

He  passed  the  dismal  vale  of  death  — 
The  human  form  resigned  its  breath, 

And  like  a  mortal  died  ; 
But  death  was  crushed  beneath  his  feet, 
He  rose  a  God  and  Man  complete, 

His  human  glorified. 


184  REDEMPTION. 

Amazing  mercy  !  —  love  immense  ! 
Surpassing  every  human  sense, 

Since  time  and  sense  began  ! 
That  man  might  shun  the  realms  of  pain, 
And  know  and  love  his  God  again, 

His  God  became  a  man ! 


KEDEMPTION. 

Redemption  claims  our  highest  lays, 
To  Jesus  Christ  belongs  the  praise  ; 
The  lofty  theme  should  fire  the  soul, 
And  music's  richest  numbers  roll. 
Our  blest  Redeemer  is  the  God  we  own, 
Then  swell  the  chorus  to  his  name  alone. 

Unseen,  unknown,  and  unrevealed, 
Ko  creature's  eye  our  God  beheld, 
Till  he  the  wondrous  work  begun, 
And  showed  the  Father  in  the  Son  ; 
Jehovah  now  as  Jesus  Christ  is  known, 
Then  swell  the  chorus  to  his  name  alone. 

From  heaven  his  pitying  eye  surveyed 
The  ruin  sin  on  earth  had  made  ; 
He  saw  his  creatures  run  the  road 
Which  led  from  happiness  and  God ; 


GOD    IN    HIS    TEMPLE.  185 

He  saw,  and  saved —  the  work  was  all  his  own, 
Then  swell  the  chorus  to  his  name  alone. 

Swift  from  supernal  realms  of  day, 
Seraphic  minstrels  winged  their  way, 
To  hail  the  great  Redeemer's  birth, 
And  published  peace  to  men  on  earth  : 
"To  God  give  glory" — sung  the  joyous  throng, 
Let  men  and  angels  still  repeat  the  song. 

Alas  !  no  human  accents  can 
Express  the  love  of  God  to  man  ; 
Who,  to  redeem  a  sinful  worm, 
Assumed  the  human  mind  and  form  ; 

Was  born  a  man,  that  man  might  be  re-born! 

Then  let  us  praise  him  on  his  natal  morn. 


GOD  IN  HIS  TEMPLE. 

God  is  in  his  holy  temple, 

Sons  of  earth  be  silent  now  ; 
Hither  let  the  saints  assemble, 

And  before  his  footstool  bow. 
Lo,  he 's  present  with  us  ever, 

When  assembled  in  his  name ; 
Aiding  every  good  endeavor, 

Guiding  every  humble  aim. 


186  GOD    IX    HIS    TEMPLE. 

God  is  iii  bis  holy  temple, 

T  is  each  renovated  mind  ; 
Where  the  purer  thoughts  assemble, 

While  the  base  are  cast  behind. 
Every  earthly,  low  affection, 

Long  opposed,  is  silent  now  ; 
Every  passion,  in  subjection, 

Must  at  Wisdom's  altar  bow. 

God  is  in  his  holy  temple, 

'T  is  the  church  he  calls  his  own, 
'T  is  the  city  where  assemble 

All  who  worship  him  alone. 
New  Jerusalem  the  holy 

Is  the  city  of  our  God, 
There  our  Saviour  governs  solely, 

With  the  balance  and  the  rod. 

God  is  in  his  holy  temple, 

'T  is  the  body  of  our  Lord ; 
Infidels  may  doubt  and  tremble, 

We  have  learned  it  from  his  Word ; 
From  the  Word  which  wrought  creation, 

From  that  Word  which  flesh  became, 
Which  alone  can  give  salvation  — 

God  and  Jesus  are  the  same. 


THE    WORLD    OF    MIND.  187 


THE  WORLD  OF  MIND. 

FIRST    DAY    OF    CREATION. 

There  is  a  world  —  the  world  of  mind, 
By  neither  time  nor  space  confined  ; 
And  when  we  cease  in  flesh  to  dwell, 
That  world  will  be  our  heaven  or  hell. 

By  fallen  nature,  't  is,  alas  ! 
A  rude,  chaotic,  shapeless  mass  ; 
Devoid  of  goodness,  truth,  or  light, 
And  veiled  iu  backest  shades  of  night. 

But  he  who  gave  creation  birth, 
Can  re-create  this  mental  earth  ; 
For  this  his  Spirit,  like  a  dove, 
Broods  o'er  our  secret  thoughts  in  love. 

If  we  consent  to  be  renewed, 

And  wish  our  evil  lust  subdued  ; 

"  Let  there  be  light,"  he  savs,  and  straight 

We  see  our  low,  disordered  state. 


188  THE    WORLD    OF    HIND. 

Then  do  we  seek  to  know  the  Lord, 
Receive  instruction  from  bis  word  ; 
While  he  divides  the  day  from  night, 
And  we  proceed  from  shade  to  light. 

Lord,  let  thy  Spirit,  like  a  dove, 
Brood  over  all  our  souls  in  love  ; 
Then  give  us  light  our  state  to  see, 
And  we  will  give  the  praise  to  thee. 


THE  WORLD  OF  MIND. 

SECOND    DAT    OF    CREATION 

Our  God  can  re-create, 
And  form  the  soul  anew ; 

And  all  who  will  co-operate, 
Shall  find  his  promise  true. 

When  we  permit  his  light 

Our  evils  to  reprove, 
And  then  those  evils  boldly  fight, 

He  will  the  whole  remove. 

Though  hard  the  contest  prove, 
And  doubtful  seem  the  fray, 

He  hovers  o'er  us  with  his  love, 
Till  we  have  gained  the  day. 


MIRIAM'S    E  189 

The  Lord  will  then  create 

A  firmament  sublime, 
Celestial  thoughts  to  separate 

From  those  of  sense  and  time. 

We  then  no  more  believe 

The  work  to  be  our  own  ; 
But  all  of  good  that  we  receive 

Ascribe  to  God  alone. 

Thus  will  a  second  birth 

Form  heaven  within  the  soul, 

And  man,  a  new-created  earth, 
In  order's  orbit  roll. 


MIRIAM'S  SONG. 

Sixg  to  Jehovah  an  anthem  of  praise, 
And  tell  of  his  glory  in  rapturous  lays  ; 
Sing  of  his  triumphs  when  demons  assaulted, 

When  hosts  of  infernals  his  human  assailed, 
The  hells  were  subdued,  and  the  Victor  exalted  — 
Like  man  he  was  tempted  —  like  God  he  pre- 
vailed. 
Sing  to  Jehovah  an  anthem  of  praise, 
And  tell  of  his  triumphs  in  rapturous  lays. 


190  MIRIAM'S    SONG. 

Praise  him,  ye   ransomed  —  he   conquered 

for  you, 
Who  fled  from  your  sins,  and  beheld  them 
pursue, 
Whelming  your  spirits  in  deep  tribulation ; 

But  Jesus  was  present,  a  pillar  of  fire, 
And  led  you  in  safety  through  seas  of  temptation, 
In  which  you  beheld  each  assailant  expire. 
Sing  to  Jehovah  an  anthem  of  praise, 
And  tell  of  his  triumphs  in  rapturous  lays. 

Praise  him  who  conquered  our  spiritual  foes, 
When  fierce,  like  an  army  of  horsemen,  they 
rose, 
Threatening  again  in  their  shackles  to  bind  us ; 
Through  billows  of  trouble  he  led  us  to  shore, 
While  the   horse  and  his  rider  were  foundered 
behind  us, 
Overwhelmed  in  the  gulf,  to  assail  us  no  more. 
Sing  to  Jehovah  an  anthem  of  praise, 
And  tell  of  his  triumphs  in  rapturous  lays. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR.  191 


OPEN  THE  DOOR. 

That  God  who  calls  the  human  mind, 
A  temple  for  himself  designed, 

A  house  upon  a  rock  — 
Assures  us  he  will  patient  wait, 
In  mercy,  at  the  mental  gate, 

And  for  admittance  knock. 


Who  hears  the  gracious  call  within, 
And  draws  the  iron  bolts  of  sin, 

Which  barricade  the  door, 
Will  banquet  with  a  guest  divine, 
On  life-imparting  food  and  wine, 

From  Love's  exhaustless  store. 


Come,  then,  clear  Saviour  —  be  my  guest, 
Knock  louder  at  this  flinty  breast, 

And  rouse  me  with  thy  voice  ; 
Then  will  I  struggle  to  remove 
The  sins  which  now  obstruct  thy  love, 

And  in  that  love  rejoice. 


192    HOW  SHALL  I  COME  BEFORE  HIM? 

Thou  wilt  not  let  me  strive  in  vain  — 
The  gates  of  brass  shall  burst  in  twain, 

The  iron  bars  shall  fall ; 
Then  will  my  soul  thy  temple  be, 
Where  I  shall  ever  feast  with  thee, 

My  God,  my  life,  my  all ! 


HOW  SHALL  I  COME  BEFORE  HIM  ? 

How  shall  we  sinners  come  before 

Our  blessed  Saviour's  dazzling  throne  ; 

Or  how  acceptably  adore 

The  great  redeeming  God  we  own  ? 

Shall  fatlings  on  his  altar  burn, 
Or  oil  in  bounteous  rivers  flow  ? 

Will  God  be  pleased  with  such  return, 
For  all  the  mighty  debt  we  owe  ? 

Or  shall  we  burst  the  tenderest  tie 

That  binds  the  throbbing  seat  of  sense, 

And  with  our  body's  offspring  buy 
A  pardon  for  our  soul's  offence  ? 

Ah !  no  —  a  humble,  contrite  heart, 
Is  all  the  offering  God  requires  ; 


HAPPINESS.  193 

Our  only  sacrifice,  to  part 

With  evil  loves  and  false  desires. 


Oh  let  us,  then,  no  longer  stray, 

Along  the  dangerous  paths  we  Ve  trod ; 

For  he  has  plainly  showed  the  way 
Which  will  conduct  us  back  to  God. 

'T  is  but  to  regulate  the  mind 

By  the  pure  precepts  of  his  word  ; 

To  act  with  truth  and  love  combined, 
And  humbly  imitate  the  Lord. 


HAPPINESS. 

Who  then  is  happy  ?     Ere  she  close  the  strain, 
The  muse  herself  shall  answer.     'T  is  the  man 
(Of  easy  fortune  and  a  generous  heart) 
Whose  charity  by  wisdom  is  directed  ; 
Who  loves  his  God,  his  neighbor,  and  himself, 
In  just  descending  order ;  whose  employ 
Is  doing  good  to  others  ;  whose  reward, 
The  bright  reflection  of  the  joy  he  gives. 
Like  a  mild  taper  in  a  diamond  lustre, 
Which  multiplies  one  little  ray  to  thousands, 
His  means  of  blessing  still  increase  by  use. 
13 


194  HAPPINESS. 

Not  all  the  evils  of  this  sordid  world, 
Can  shake  the  solid  peace  of  such  a  man. 
The  changing  seasons,  times,  events,  and  all 
The  various  scenes  that  checker  human  life, 
And  e'en  the  chilling  adverse  storms  of  fate, 
Serve  but  to  ripen  the  celestial  fruits 
His  active  love  produces  ;  draughts  of  bliss 
He  quaffs  for  every  little  taste  he  gives, 
And  finds  a  heaven  in  wishing  others  there. 
To  seek  for  happiness  in  things  of  sense, 
In  wealth,  ambition,  pleasure,  or  supineness, 
Is  but  a  vain  exertion  —  idle  hope  ; 
For  then  we  chase  a  transitory  cheat, 
And  leave  the  game,  the  real  prize,  behind, 
Hid  in  contentment's  calm  sequestered  vale, 
While  we  toil  up  the  mountain's  rugged  side, 
Tempting  new  dangers*  and  exposed  to  all 
The  storms  that  beat  ambition's  bleaker  road ; 
Or  perils  worse  than  these,  concealed  beneath 
The  treacherous  sweets  that  bloom  in  pleasure's 

path, 
A  thousaud  serpent-stings,  unseen,  but  fatal. 
And  if  in  dastard  indolence  we  rest, 
Our  lazy  hopes  are  certain  of  defeat. 
Then  learn  the  true,  the  only  real  source 
Whence  happiness  can  flow  —  a  precept  drawn 
From  holy  writ  this  heavenly  source  proclaims  — 
"  To  fear  the  Lord,  and  his  commands  obeys, 


CONSECRATION.  195 

Is  man's  whole  duty,"  in  a  single  line  ; 
An  easy  yoke,  a  burden  light  to  bear. 
'T  is  but  to  love  in  heart  and  action  both  — 
For  love  is  the  fulfilling-  of  the  law. 


CONSECRATION. 

Jesus  is  God,  and  God  alone, 

Oh,  be  this  truth  confest, 
For  't  is  the  sure  foundation  stone 

On  which  the  church  shall  rest. 

Though  modern  builders  pass  it  by, 
And  scribes  and  priests  reject, 

On  this  blest  truth,  which  they  deny, 
We  now  the  church  erect. 

Though  earth  and  hell  against  it  join, 
Yet  must  this  building  rise  ; 

The  work,  Almighty  God,  is  thine, 
And  wondrous  in  our  eyes 


196  SIN    NO   MORE. 


SIN  NO  MORE. 

A  song  of  gratitude  begin, 
To  praise  the  God  who  saves  from  sin  ; 
Who  marks  the  penitential  tear, 
And  deigns  the  contrite  sigh  to  hear ; 
Who  whispers  hope,  when  we  our  sins  deplore  — 
"Thy  God  condemns  thee  not — offend  no  more." 

But  ah  !  such  love  can  ne'er  be  sung  — 
Such  boundless  grace  ! — by  mortal  tongue  ; 
For  e'en  celestial  minstrels  deem 
Their  highest  skill  below  the  theme ; 
Yet  mortals  can,  with  gratitude,  adore 
The  God  who  pardons  all  that  sin  no  more. 

Dear  Lord !  is  this  condition  all  — 
To  fight  the  foes  that  wrought  our  fall? 
Thus  armed  with  hope,  I  '11  quell  a  host, 
Nor  let  so  cheap  a  heaven  be  lost ; 
Oh  then  repeat  the  sweet  assurance  o'er, 
"  Thy  God  will  not  condemn  thee  —  sin  no  more." 


AND    DID    I    SAY?  197 


AND  DID  I  SAY? 

And  did  I  say  my  lyre  should  sleep, 

Because  no  laurels  decked  it ; 
That  I  no  more  its  chords  would  sweep, 
Because  its  lay  is  valued  cheap, 

And  all  the  world  neglect  it  ? 
I  did  —  but  felt  not  then  the  flame 

Which  now  within  me  blazes, 
Nor  recked  of  His  eternal  claim, 
Who  gave  the  lyre  to  sing  his  name, 

And  utter  forth  his  praises. 

But  now  that  lyre  shall  sleep  no  more, 

Nor  wake  to  earthly  measures  ; 
But  every  strain  it  warbles  o'er, 
Shall  that  Eternal  Source  adore, 

Whence  flow  immortal  pleasures. 
No  more  I  prostitute  its  lay, 

To  subjects  evanescent ; 
But  sing  those  scenes  of  endless  day, 
Where  angel  harps  in  rapture  play, 

And  praises  flow  incessant. 


198  THE    PARALYTIC'S    DEPRECATION. 


THE  PARALYTIC'S  DEPRECATION. 

Paralysis,  thou  ruthless  fiend,  forbear  ! 
Drag  not  thy  victim  thus  to  fell  despair! 
Or  art  thou  licensed  by  offended  Heaven  ? 
And  has  commission,  then,  to  thee  been  given, 
Arouud  poor,  erring  mortals  thus  to  throw 
Thy  iron  shackles  ?  Demon,  let  me  go ! 
Why  chain  me  thus  ?  dissolve  the  spell  !  relent! 
In  vain  I  struggle,  for  my  strength  is  spent. 
In  pity  spare  me !  for  I  can  not  move 
My  limbs,  nor  lift  my  pinioned  arms  above, 
In  supplication  to  the  throne  of  grace  ; 
Hold,  ruthless  demon !  for  a  little  space. 

Father  of  mercies !  humbled  to  the  dust, 
I  here  confess  the  visitation  just  ; 
For  I  have  sinned  against  thy  truth  and  grace, 
And  thus  before  thee  lowly  bend  my  face ; 
Confusion  seals  my  lips,  and  ties  my  tongue, 
But  oh  !  remember  what  thy  prophet  sung  : 
That  "  thou  art  merciful  and  gracious"  still, 
To  all  who  bow  submissive  to  thy  will  ; 


BE    WISE.  199 

Still  "slow  to  anger,"  merciful  as  just, 
Oh  give  me  hope  !  remember  I  am  dust ; 
Thou  wilt  not  always  chide,  nor  anger  bear 
To  crush  a  wretch  that  pleads  with  thee  in  prayer ; 
For,  like  the  royal  bard,  by  truth  convicted, 
I  feel  "  't  is  good  for  me  to  be  afflicted, 
That  I  might  learn  thy  statutes"  and  thy  law, 
W hence  all  my  consolations  now  I  draw. 
For  ere  affliction's  cloud  obscured  my  day, 
How  oft  temptations  lured  my  steps  astray  ! 
But  now  I  keep  thy  word  with  zealous  fear, 
Oh,  with  thy  pard'ning  mercy  still  be  near, 
According  to  thy  loving-kindness,  Lord, 
As  thou  hast  promised  sinners  in  thy  word  ; 
Oli  blot  out  my  transgressions  ;  wash  my  soul, 
From  its  pollutions  —  make  the  leper  whole. 
Hear  my  petition  !  make  me  to  know,  once  more, 
The  "  joy  and  gladness''  which  I  knew  before  ; 
So  shall  my  "  broken  bones  again  rejoice," 
And  I  will  praise  thee  with  a  grateful  voice ! 


BE  WISE! 

The  graver  moralist  resumes  his  theme, 
To  wake  the  soul  from  error's  fatal  dream  ; 
To  show  the  path  which  leads  to  solid  bliss, 
The  happy  goal  which  slaves  of  passion  miss. 


200  PHILOSOPHY    AND   RELIGION. 


THILOSOPHY  AND  RELIGION. 

There  is  a  Philosophy,  hollow,  unsound, 
To  matter  confining  its  false  speculations  ; 

Whose  flight  is  restrained  within  Nature's  dull 
round, 
Its  pinions  the  web  of  sophistic  persuasions. 

And  there 's  a  Philosophy  truly  divine, 
That  traces  effects  up  to  spiritual  causes, 

Determines  the  link  of  the  chain  where  they  join, 
And  soars  to  an  infinite  height  ere  it  pauses. 

That  meanly  debases  the  image  of  God, 

To  rank  with  the  brutes  in  the  scale  of  creation  ; 
This  raises  the  tenant  of  light  from  the  sod, 

And  bears  him  to  heaven,  his  primitive  station- 
Hail,  science  of  Angels  !  Theosophy,  hail ! 

That  shows  us  the  regions  of  bliss  by  reflection ; 
Removes  from  creation's  broad  mirror  the  vail, 

Where  spirit  and  matter  appear  in  connection. 

Its  breaks  on  the  soul  in  an  ocean  of  light, 
She  starts  from  her  lethargy  stretches  her  pinions, 


WEEPING    MARY.  201 

Beholds  a  new  world  bursting  forth  on  her  sight, 
And,  soaring  in  ecstacy,  claims  her  dominions. 

A  sense  of  original,  dignified  worth, 

Her  bosom  expands  with  sublime  exultation ; 

She  tastes  immortality  even  on  earth, 

In  light  that  eclipses  the  sun's  emanation. 

Be  sages  and  pedants  to  nature  confined, 

As  the  bat  darkly  flutters  in  Luna's  pale  pres- 
ence ; 
I  '11  soar,  like  the  eagle,  through  regions  of  mind, 
In  the  blaze  of  that  Sun  which  is  truth  in  its 
essence. 


WEEPING  MARY. 

IMITATED    FROM    THE    LATIN,    IN    THE    CATHOLIC 
PHAYER-BOOK. 

Weeping  Mary,  bathed  in  sorrow, 
Lingered  near  the  scene  of  horror, 

Where  the  dying  Saviour  hung  ; 
From  whose  bursting  heart  arising, 
Groans  of  anguish  ao;onizin2\ 

Floated  e'er  his  fevered  tongue ! 


202  WEEPING    MARY. 

Oh  what  sorrow,  deep,  unbounded, 
That  maternal  bosom  wounded, 

Once  the  Saviour's  couch  of  rest ! 
How  she  wept  to  see  him  languish, 
How  she  trembled  for  the  anguish 

Laboring  in  his  guiltless  breast ! 

Who  could  witness,  without  weeping, 
Gushing  streams  of  sorrow  sweeping 

Down  the  mother's  pallid  cheek  ? 
Who,  with  bosom  unrelenting, 
Could  behold  her  thus  lamenting, 

Looking  what  no  tongue  could  speak  ? 

While  such  pangs  as  fiends  invented, 
Still  her  suffering  Son  tormented, 

Scorn  and  bruises,  stripes  and  death  ; 
She  beheld  him  thus  expiring, 
Human  friends  in  fear  retiring, 

Whilst  in  groans  he  spent  his  breath  ! 

Matchless  mercy  !  love  amazing  ! 
Far  above  our  feeble  praising, 

Far  beyond  our  humble  lays  ; 
May  its  influence  never  vary, 
Till  my  heart,  like  that  of  Mary, 

Glow  with  a  seraphic  blaze. 


NEW    JERUSALEM.  203 

Gracious  Saviour,  now  iu  glory ! 
Be  this  sad,  affecting  story 

Deeply  on  thy  soul  imprest ! 
May  the  scene  of  such  affliction, 
Bring  the  hardest  heart  conviction, 

Melt  the  most  obdurate  breast ! 


NEW  JERUSALEM. 

Rich  in  mercy,  Jesus  reigns, 

Heaven  owns  no  other  king  ; 
Crown  him,  mortals,  in  your  strains, 

While  his  matchless  grace  you  sing. 
Angels  wake  their  loftier  lays, 

Kindled  from  celestial  fires, 
Humbler  spirits  bid  his  praise 

Sweetly  flow  from  silver  lyres. 

Mortals  !  catch  the  pleasing  strain, 

Gratitude  demands  the  song  — 
Jesus  builds  his  church  again, 

Where  your  Babel  stood  so  long. 
Truth  divine  her  wall  supports, 

Love  has  paved  her  street  with  gold  ; 
See  her  jasper  towers  and  courts, 

Gates  of  pearl  that  never  fold. 


204  REGENERATION. 

Pilgrims  !  enter  and  rejoice  — 

Here  your  Saviour  holds  bis  throne  ; 
?T  is  the  City  of  his  choice, 

'T  is  the  Church  he  calls  his  own. 
Precious  gems,  on  every  side, 

Lend  new  lustre  to  her  charms  — 
'T  is  the  Lamb's  celestial  Bride, 

Smiling  in  her  husband's  arms. 


REGENERATION. 

"Blessed  is  the  man  who  walketh  not  in  the  counsel  of  the  un- 
godly," &c.  —  Psalm  i.,  1,  2,  3. 

How  happy  the  man  who  discards  from  his  breast 
The  lusts  and  the  passions  which  daily  molest ; 
Who  heeds  not  their  counsel  or  softest  persuasion, 
But  treats  them  as  foes  upon  every  occasion. 

Though  the  sunshine  of  peace  such  a  bosom  illume, 
Or  nights  of  temptation  involve  it  in  gloom  ; 
Whatever  his  state  be,  with  calm  resignation, 
He  looks  to  the  Word  of  his  God  for  salvation. 

And  the  Word  of  his  God,  like  a  river  of  truth, 
Gives  each  young-budding  virtue  the  vigor  of 
youth  ; 


BRIGHT    IS    THE    WORD.  205 

While  practical  love  is  still  tempered  by  reason, 
As  the  green  leaflet  decks  the  ripe  fruit  in  its  season. 

Thus  regeneration  proceeds  from  the  Word, 
If  we  combat  our  evils,  and  trust  in  the  Lord  ; 
Then  prosper,  dear  Saviour,  each  humble  endeavor, 
And  thine  be  the  glory,  for  ever  and  ever ! 


BRIGHT  IS  THE  WORD. 

Bright  is  the  Word,  't  is  light  divine, 
A  Sun  that  will  for  ever  shine, 
To  light  us  o'er  the  pathless  sand, 
From  Egypt  to  the  promised  land. 
Then  swell  the  anthem  to  its  Author's  praise, 
Who  through  the  world  extends  its  cheering  rays. 

Clear  is  the  Word,  whose  living  stream, 
Reflecting  love's  celestial  beam, 
Through  every  sterile  desert  rolls, 
Imparting  life  to  dying  souls ; 
The  tree  of  life  adorns  its  verdant  brink, 
It  flows  to  all  —  and  all  may  freely  drink. 

Then  let  the  grateful  anthem  rise 
To  God,  the  only  good  and  wise, 


206   ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH. 

Who  bids  the  heathen  hear  his  voice, 
And  in  his  boundless  love  rejoice. 
The  light  shall  spread,  the  bounteous  river  flow, 
Till  all  the  earth  a  Saviour's  love  shall  know. 


ON  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH. 

Awake  the  organ's  pealing  tone, 
And  bid  the  grateful  anthem  swell, 

To  make  Jehovah's  goodness  known, 
And  of  his  wondrous  mercies  tell. 

Creator,  Father,  Saviour,  Lord ! 

To  raise  from  hell  our  fallen  race 
He  gave  himself —  he  gave  his  Word, 

And  gives  us  still  his  quick'ning  grace. 

Here,  when  the  seed  of  truth  was  cast, 
His  saw  the  tender,  trembling  shoot, 

And  screened  it  from  the  wintry  blast  — 
The  vine  is  his,  and  his  the  fruit. 

?T  was  warmed  by  Love's  celestial  ray ; 

While  lucid  truths,  like  heavenly  clew, 
With  liquid  pearls  begemmed  the  spray, 

And  like  an  Eden  plant  it  grew. 


SEEK    YE    THE    LORD. 


20t 


This  dawning  year  beholds  it  grown 
A  little  vineyard.     Lord,  to  thee 

We  yield  the  fruits  —  they  are  thine  own  : 
The  planter,  thou  —  the  laborers,  we. 

This  vineyard  now  in  orders  stands, 
Thy  laws  of  order  are  divine ! 

Accept  this  tribute  at  our  hands  — 
Almighty  God,  the  work  was  thine. 


SEEK  YE  THE  LORD. 

Ye  sons  of  men,  come,  seek  the  Lord, 
While  yet  he  may  be  found ; 

H  '11  meet  you  in  his  holy  Word, 
Where  love  and  truth  abound. 

Call  on  him  while  he  yet  is  near 

To  hear  a  sinner's  call  ; 
A  humble  penitential  tear 

Will  never  vainly  fall. 

Let  man  forsake  the  sinner's  road, 
Discard  each  vicious  thought, 

Return  to  Jesus,  as  his  God, 
And  be  by  Jesus  taught  ; 


208  "FATHER,  THOU    ART    GOOD." 

Then  will  the  Lord  his  mercy  show, 
His  pardon  freely  give  ; 

Then  man  his  only  good  will  know, 
And  in  that  knowledge  live. 


"FATHER,  THOU  ART  GOOD!" 

"  If  ye,  then,  being  evil,  know  how  to  give  good  gifts  unto 
your  children,  how  much  more  shall  your  father  which  is  in 
heaven,  give  good  things  to  them  that  ask  him  !"— Matt,  vii.,  11. 

My  youngest  boy.  just  five  years  old, 

Entered  my  room  the  other  day, 
Who,  just  before,  I  had  been  told, 

Had  something  which  he  wished  to  say. 
With  modest  grace,  he  made  his  bow, 

I  marked  the  tear-drop  in  his  eye, 
And  kindly  asked  him — "Well,  what  now?'* 

When,  sobbing,  thus  he  made  reply  : — 
"  I  found  that  peach  delicious  food ! 

And  I  enjoyed  it,  while  at  play  ; 
My  dear  papa,  oh,  you  are  good  ! 

And  that  is  what  I  had  to  say." 

It  was  the  gush  of  gratitude 

That  tuned  his  voice  and  rilled  his  eye  ; 
"  Father  of  mercies  !  thou  art  good 

To  all  who  dwell  beneath  the  sky." 


THE    WIDOW.  209 

This  child  has  taught  me  how  to  pray, 
And  how  express  my  thanks  to  thee  ; 

What  better  language  can  we  say, 
Than  what  this  infant  said  to  me  ? 


"  Father  of  mercies,  thou  art  good  !" 

Is  language  fraught  with  filial  love, 
Glowing  with  heartfelt  gratitude, 

An  incense  which  thou  wilt  approve. 
Oh,  grant  me  grace  to  breathe  it  still, 

When  I  would  speak  my  gratitude 
For  blessings  which  my  goblet  fill  — 

u  Father  of  mercies,  thou  art  good !" 


THE  WIDOW. 

We  parted  :  oh  !  it  was  a  painful  hour  ! 

Not  that  I  thought  him  lost  to  me  for  ever, 
I  knew  that  mighty  love's  resistless  power 

Would  re-unite  us,  ne'er  again  to  sever  ; 
For  we  are  wedded  —  not  as  thoughtless  mortals, 

Incited  only  by  terrestial  views, 
Enter  that  sacred  fane's  mysterious  portals. 

Our  souls  are  wedded  ;  that  assurance  strews 

My  widowed  path  with  flowers  of  fadeless  hues. 
II 


210  THE    WIDOW. 

Yet  is  the  briefest  parting  hard ;  for  love, 
Deprived  of  wisdom,  is  a  rayless  sun ; 

A  summer  midnight,  when  no  star  above 

Throws  down  one  cheering  ray;  'tis  good,  alone, 

Without  her  partner  truth  ;  or  it  resembles 
Warm  melting  charity,  intent  to  bless, 

When  without  faith  to  guide  her  steps,  she  trembles 
O'er  the  dark  scene  of  human  wretchedness, 
Wondering  if  Heaven  permits  or  wills  distress. 

?T  was  hard  to  part ;  and  while  his  spirit  hovered 
On  the  cold  lips  my  kisses  could  not  warm, 

I  prayed  and  murmured  ;  but,  alas  !  when  covered 
By  the  dark  pall,  they  bore  that  manly  form 

To  its  cold  grave,  I  lost  the  pang  of  sorrowr, 
For  reason  fled,  and  Pda  dreamless  sleep ; 

But  woke,  in  anguish,  on  the  coming  morrow, 
No  more  to  murmur,  pray,  or  even  weep, 
For  grief  is  ever  silent  when  it 's  deep. 

Humbled  to  earth,  my  self-upbraiding  soul, 
With  mental  tongue,  exclaimed,   Thy  will  be 
done ! 
When,  through  my  bosom,  such  a  feeling  stole 

As  mocks  the  power  of  language  ;  it  was  one 
Of  those  delicious  thrills  of  nameless  rapture 
We  feel,  when  conscience,  Heaven,  and  friends 
approve ; 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL    HYMN.  211 

When  earthly  joys  have  lost  their  power  to  capture; 
For  Reuben's  spirit  whispered,   H Peace,  sweet 

dove, 
We' re  joined  for  ever,  in  Conjwgial  Love* 


SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN. 

0    Thou,  whose  eye,  with  mercy  mild, 

Surveys  the  sinner's  bended  knee, 
Thou,  who  wast  once  a  little  child, 

As  tender  and  as  young  as  we ; 
Dear  Jesus,  Saviour,  Father,  Friend, 

To  thee  our  lisping  tongues  would  raise  — 
While  humbly  at  thy  feet  we  bend  — 

A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

'Twas  thy  creating  Word  that  made 

All  things  below  and  all  above, 
Where  we  admiring  see  displayed 

Thy  matchless  wisdom,  power,  and  love. 
'T  was  thy  redeeming  love  that  raised, 

Our  souls  from  ruin,  sin,  and  wo  ; 
Then  let  thy  holy  name  be  praised, 

By  all  good  children  here  below. 

*  From  the  Latin  term  conjugialc,  a  higher  degree  of  union 
than  is  understood  by  the  term  conjugal,  which  is  from  the  Latin 
word  conjugate. 


212  THE    PLEASURES    OF    RELIGION. 

And  may  those  hearts  thy  love  inclined 

To  bless  our  souls  with  heavenly  light, 
To  pour  instructions  o'er  the  mind, 

Enshrined  in  ignorance  and  night  — 
May  they  enjoy  a  rich  reward, 

In  conscious  virtue's  sweet  repast ; 
Oh  bless  them  while  on  earth,  dear  Lord, 

And  take  them  to  thyself  at  last. 


ON  HEARING  A  SERMON  ON  THE  PLEASURES 
OF  RELIGION. 

Wsen  o'er  the  sacred  desk,  with  modest  grace 

And  lowly  meekness,  bends  thy  reverend  form, 
While  the  great  theme  that  animates  thy  face, 
Bids  every  bosom  glow  with  transport  warm  — 

How  could  I  listen  to  the  heavenly  theme, 
Forget  the  pleasures  that  entice  me  here, 

Think  human  life  a  transitory  dream, 

And  wish,  with  thee,  to  gain  a  higher  sphere  ! 

Go  on,  thou  champion  in  the  cause  of  truth, 
Armed  by  thy  Saviour,  still  the  foe  engage  ; 

Still  charm  from  vice  the  steps  of  ardent  youth, 
And  strew  with  rosy  hopes  the  path  of  age. 


FAITH.  213 


FAITH. 

My  little  girl,  the  other  day, 

(Three  years  of  age  a  month  ago,) 
Wounded  her  finger  while  at  play, 

And  saw  the  crimson  fluid  flow. 
With  pleading  optics,  raining  tears, 

She  sought  my  aid,  in  terror  wild  ; 
I  smiling  said,  "  Dismiss  your  fears, 

And  all  shall  soon  be  well,  my  child." 
Her  little  bosom  ceased  to  swell, 

While  she  replied  with  calmer  brow, 
"  I  know  that  you  can  make  it  well, 

But  how,  papa?  — I  don't  see  how." 

Our  children  oft  instruct  us  thus  ; 

For  succor,  or  for  recompense, 
They  look  with  confidence  to  us, 

As  we  should  look  to  Providence. 
For  each  infantile  doubt  and  fear, 

And  every  little  childish  grief, 
Is  uttered  to  a  parent's  ear, 

With  full  assurance  of  relief. 
A  grateful  sense  of  favors  past, 

Incites  them  to  petition  now, 


214  THE    SOLAR    SYSTEM. 

With  faith  in  succor  to  the  last, 
Although  they  can  't  imagine  how. 

And  shall  I  doubt ingly  repine, 

When  clouds  of  dark  affliction  lower  ? 
A  tenderer  Father  still  is  mine, 

Of  greater  mercy,  love,  and  power  : 
He  clothes  the  lily,  feeds  the  dove, 

The  meanest  insect  feels  his  care  ; 
And  shall  not  man  confess  his  love, 

Man,  his  own  offspring,  and  his  heir  ? 
Yes,  though  he  slay,  1 711  trust  him  still, 

And  still  with  resignation  bow  ; 
He  may  relieve,  he  can,  he  will  — 

Although  I  can  not  yet  see  how. 


THE  SOLAR  SYSTEM. 

Behold  yon  orbs,  in  paths  harmonious,  run 
Their  destined  courses  round  the  parent  sun  ; 
Grand  correspondent  of  that  Sun  above, 
Whose  light  is  wisdom,  and  whose  heat  is  love. 
There  terra  rolls  —  a  speck  upon  the  sky, 
Less  than  a  speck  to  some  more  distant  eye  ; 
Suppose,  that  on  the  surface  of  that  ball 
Myriads  of  little  thinking  insects  crawl, 


THE    SOLAR    SYSTEM.  215 

Whose  trembling  spark  of  life,  at  longest,  burns 
While  round  the  sun  they  make  an  hundred  turns 
And  then  expire ;  suppose  your  eye  could  trace 
The  various  movements  of  this  tiny  race  ; 
Suppose  you  saw  a  few  ambitious  mites 
Attempt  to  lord  it  o'er  their  fellows'  rights  ; 
Or  viewed  a  host,  who  placed  their  hope  and  trust 
In  hoarding  glittering  grains  of  yellow  dust ; 
Or  thousands,  whose  ambition  but  aspired 
To  see  their  gaudy  hues  awhile  admired ; 
Or  millions,  whose  less  innocent  intents,  , 
Concentrate  in  the  groveling  joys  of  sense  — 
Would  you  not  think  they  marred  their  Maker's 

plan? 
Then  blush,  proud  mortal  —  such,  alas  !  is  man  : 
Such  follies,  or  such  crimes,  apply  to  all 
The  busy  insects  of  our  native  ball  — 
And  were  not  aid  divine  in  mercy  given, 
Each  had  for  ever  lost  his  destined  heaven. 

But  think  not,  vainly,  that  the  human  race 
Is  limited  to  such  contracted  space  ; 
Dream  not  that  those  bright  orbs  were  set  on  high, 
To  run  their  various  courses  through  the  sky, 
For  ornament  alone  —  ignoble  thought, 
To  reason  listen,  and  be  better  taught ! 
Know  that  Eternal  Love  conceived  the  plan, 
And  love  eternal  rests  at  last  on  man  ; 


216  THE    SOLAR    SYSTEM. 

For  each  effect  its  energies  produce, 
Is  wrought  by  wisdom,  and  its  end  is  use  ; 
Hence  learn  that  every  moving,  twinkling  light 
That  decks  the  azure  vault  of  heaven  at  night, 
Is  round  a  central  sun  resistless  hurled, 
Itself  a  ponderous  globe  —  a  peopled  world  : 
A  world,  perhaps,  unstained  by  crime  or  blood, 
Where  social  love  prefers  its  neighbor's  good  ; 
Where  every  joy  derives  its  sweetest  zest 
From  the  fond  wish  of  making  others  blest ; 
Where  heaven-born  charity  exerts  her  powers  — 
A  world  of  bliss,  as  man  might  render  ours. 
Such  peopled  orbs  in  countless  numbers  fly 
In  never-varying  order  through  the  sky  ; 
And  all  with  one  accordant  voice  proclaim, 
The  power  which  made  and  still  supports  thei 
frame. 

Presumptuous  Atheist !  if  such  wretch  exist, 
Can  thy  vain  reasoning  proofs  like  these  resist  ? 
Say,  can  these  planets,  in  harmonious  dance, 
Perform  their  revolutions  thus  by  chance  ? 
Perish  the  thought !  —  rise  from  thy  native  clod. 
Renounce  thy  error,  and  confess  a  God ! 
For  though  with  every  mortal  honor  clad, 
"  An  undevout  Astronomer  is  mad  ;" 
Conviction  seals  thy  lips  —  presume  no  more, 
But  in  mute  wonder  tremble  and  adore. 


MY    MOTHER'S   GRAVE.  217 


MY  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  BURIAL-PLACE,  IN  SCITUATE, 
.MASSACHUSETTS. 

[a   juvenile   production.] 

Aurora  paints  the  orient  skies  with  light, 
With  rosy  pencil  tinges  every  cloud, 

Unfolds  her  gates  upon  the  rear  of  Night, 
And  strips  the  mountains  of  his  sable  shroud. 

The  conscious  stars  conceal  their  twinkling  fires, 
Night's  waning  impress  turns  more  sickly  pale, 

Her  votary  the  whizzing  bat  retires, 

The  owl  suspends  her  harsh  complaining  tale. 

The  lark  awakes  and  tunes  his  matin  song, 
And  ail  the  sylvan  warblers  join  the  theme  ; 

The  whistling  ploughman  drives  his  team  along, 
And  sporting  swans  sail  stately  down  the  stream. 

Adieu,  dull  couch  !  for  Nature  more  can  please, 
While  o'er  her  rich  enamelled  breast  I  stray, 

Inhaling  sweets  which  freight  the  balmy  breeze, 
Stolen  in  kisses  from  the  lips  of  May. 


218  MY    MOTHER'S    GRAVE.; 

The  peach -bloom  in  the  breathing  zephyr  plays, 
And  shakes  soft  odors  from  its  silken  leaves  ; 

The  apple,  too,  a  silver  garb  displays, 

Whence  morning's  breath  a  rich  perfume  re- 
ceives. 

Here  let  me  stray,  adown  this  mossy  ridge  ; 

Observe  yon  streamlet  o'er  the  pebbles  creep ; 
Pass  o'er  its  little,  rude-constructed  bridge, 

To  where,  in  silence,  all  our  fathers  sleep. 

Oh  may  I  never  pass  this  sacred  spot, 

Unmindful  of  the  dust  these  walls  enclose  : 

For  here,  partaking  in  the  common  lot, 
A  tender  Mother's  relics  find  repose  ! 

Here  various  stones,  on  various  models  planned, 
Discriminate  between  the  rich  and  poor  ; 

Some  richly  sculptured  by  an  artist's  hand, 
Some  rudely  lettered,  and  adorned  no  more. 

But  filial  love  and  sorrow  soon  discern 
The  humble  state  they  consecrated  here  ; 

The  drooping  willow  weeping  o'er  the  urn, 
The  quoted  motto,  and  the  name  most  dear. 

Yes  't  is  the  same  —  beneath  this  turfy  heap 
Lowly  reclines  the  form  which  gave  me  birth  ; 


my  mother's  grave.  219 

Those  arms,  the  cradle  of  my  earliest  sleep, 
Are  nerveless  now,  and  mingling  with  the  earth. 

Those  lips,  whose  accents  could  my  cares  remove, 
Are  sealed  in  silence,  stiffened,  cold,  and  dead ! 

Those  eyes,  which  beamed  with  fond,  maternal  love, 
Are  closed  in  darkness,  and  their  lustre  fled. 

Oh,  dear  departed  !  venerable  shade  ! 

If  earthly  objects  can  thy  notice  claim, 
Accept  the  tribute  filial  love  has  paid, 

The  pearly  gem  that  glitters  on  thy  name. 

Though  five  sad  years  their  destined  course  have  run, 
Since  death  confined  thy  mortal  body  here, 

Yet  can  not  thy  poor,  sorrowing,  orphan  son, 
Review  the  spot  unmoistened  with  a  tear. 

Hard  fate  forbade,  when  nature's  tenderest  ties 
"Where  severed  by  the  lingering  stroke  of  death, 

That  filial  love  should  close  thy  sunken  eyes, 
Or  from  thy  lips  to  kiss  the  parting  breath. 

Forgive  thy  son,  indulgent  parent,  this, 
As  he  forgives  the  fate  he  could  not  move; 

Though  oft  in  duty  he  has  been  remiss, 

This  last  neglect  was  not  from  want  of  love. 


220  MY    MOTHER'S    CxRAVE. 

For,  weeks  before,  when  wasting  nature  knew 
The  struggle  fruitless  for  her  forfeit  breath, 

Thy  wish  I  heard,  and  with  impatience  flew 
To  kiss  thy  cheek  before  it  sunk  in  death. 

When  faithful  memory  recalls  with  pain 
This  last,  sad  duty  which  I  paid  to  thee  — 

A  final  parting,  ne'er  to  meet  again, 

Till  from  the  world  and  its  corruptions  free  — 

I  feel  the  son  in  all  my  moving  soul  ; 

How  truly  so,  these  starting  tears  reveal ; 
The  sacred  drops  shall  meet  with  no  control ! 

Affection's  tear  what  son  would  e'er  conceal  ? 

Then  was  the  mother  all  alive  in  thee  ; 

What  wholesome  counsel  from  thy  lips  I  drew — 
Which  in  my  breast  shall  ever  treasured  be  — 

The  only  legacy  I  had  from  you ! 

Since  then,  dear  parent,  Joy  has  seldom  smiled 
Upon  thy  son  —  severe  has  been  his  fate  — 

The  world  was  new  —  an  inexperienced  child 
Its  friendship  sought — but  only  gained  its  hate ! 

He  hoped  from  Fortune  but  a  cheering  smile, 
But  like  the  world  she  frowned  upon  his  claim ; 

He  then  pursued  a  fleeting  shade  awhile  — 
But  broke  a  bubble  when  he  grasped  at  Fame  ! 


MY    MOTHER'S    GRAVK.  221 

His  only  respite,  now,  from  mental  pain, 
Is  o'er  his  native  rural  scenes  to  roam  ; 

A  view  of  this  sequestered  spot  to  gain, 
Or  when  away  to  think  of  thee  and  home ! 

The  green  turf  swells  above  thy  mouldering  clay, 
The  moss  has  strewed  it  with  the  softest  felt ; 

The  violets  here  their  loveliest  hues  display, 
To  deck  the  bed  on  which  he  oft  has  knelt. 

This  humble  stone,  which  fond  affection  placed, 
To  mark  the  spot,  and  to  preserve  thy  name, 

Though  by  a  rude,  unlettered  artist  traced, 
On  his  regard  has  more  than  marble's  claim. 

Sacred  to  thee  for  ever  may  it  stand  ; 

Forbear,  0  Time !  the  tablet  to  destroy, 
Whose  lay  disarms  the  king  of  terror's  hand  — 

"Death  is  the  gate  to  everlasting  joy" 

This  truth  believed,  no  more  shall  baseless  fear 
Attend  the  word  that  speaks  of  leaving  earth  ; 

We  seek  for  happiness  —  it  dwells  not  here  ; 
In  heaven  alone  are  joys  of  lasting  worth. 

Here  some  repose  who  scarce  received  their  birth, 
Ere  death  consigned  them  to  the  silent  tomb  ; 

Small,  though  sufficient,  is  their  lot  of  earth  — 
The  flowers,  transplanted,  will  for  ever  bloom. 


222  MY    MOTHER'S    GRAVE. 

'No  age  is  free  from  Death's  insatiate  bow, 
His  shafts  are  levelled,  and  his  victims  fall ! 

The  rose  of  infancy,  or  fourscore  snow, 
Alike  avail  not,  he  must  conquer  all. 

Those  rustic  biers  against  the  wall  reclined, 
The  wasting  bearers  of  the  archer's  prey, 

Impress  this  serious  truth  upon  the  mind  — 
Existence  is  not  certain  for  a  day ! 

How  oft  this  pious,  all-important  theme 

Hast  thou  impressed  upon  thy  listening  boy, 

My  much-loved  mother!  —  but  the  playful  dream 
Of  childhood,  pictured  only  scenes  of  joy. 

Then  would  we  come,  my  little  sisters  too, 

And  one  fond  brother,  through  this  yard  to  stray ; 

Our  destined  beds  beneath  the  sod  to  view, 
Survey  these  stones,  and  read  the  uncouth  lay. 

Then,  as  the  shades  of  evening  veiled  the  plains, 
Back  to  yon  mansion  we  would  gayly  stroll, 

The  humble  benefice  which  still  sustains 
The  careful  guardian  of  the  Christian  soul. 

Beneath  that  roof  I  first  inhaled  the  air, 

Poor  were  my  parents,  hard  they  earned  their 
bread, 


MY    MOTHER'S    GRAVE.  223 

Rich  only  in  a  reputation  fair, 

And  oicned  no  mansion  where  to  lay  the  head. 

Along  yon  streamlet,  where  the  whispering  reeds 
And  fragrant  flags  upon  its  borders  play, 

Where  through  those  cedars  it  meandering  leads, 
My  infant  footsteps  first  were  taught  to  stray. 

And  how  a  mothers  tender,  anxious  care, 
Has  oft  deprived  me  of  this  little  joy  ! 

The  last  love-pledge  of  this  connubial  pair, 
Their  fears  were  ever  wakeful  for  the  boy. 

The  sylvan  muse  enticed  me  to  her  cell, 

My  childish  fingers  wantoned  o'er  her  lyre  — 

Bade  the  rude  strain,  untaught,  to  wildly  swell, 
While  to  the  sound  each  throbbing  pulse  beat 
higher. 

Then  as  I  grew  and  learned  to  sweep  the  strings 
By  art  directed,  though  less  sweetly  wild, 

I  envied  not  the  happiest  of  kings, 

My  lyre  was  bliss,  and  I  a  happy  child. 

But  why  recount  the  joys  of  childhood  o'er  ? 

That  happy  state  with  all  its  joys  has  fled! 
As  fade  the  beauties  of  the  tender  flower, 

When  Winter  beats  upon  its  drooping  head. 


224  MY  mother's  grave. 

But  see  !  the  ocean  sparkles  on  the  sight, 
What  lovely  hues  upon  its  surface  play ! 

The  liquid  mirror  streams  with  dazzling  light, 
Reflecting  from  the  rising  god  of  day. 

He  comes !  and  Nature  hails  his  gladd'ning  beams, 
New  life  pervades  her  animated  part  ; 

Nor  less  improved  the  vegetable  seems, 

Its  charms  increase,  and  laugh  at  mimic  art. 

Xot  long  ago,  adown  the  western  skies 

He  sank,  and  left  the  mourning  world  in  gloom; 

But  only  sank  at  night,  again  to  rise, 

In  tenfold  splendor,  from  his  watery  tomb. 

So,  though  we  sink  beneath  the  verdant  sod, 
And  leave  our  friends  in  mounful  weeds  and  tears, 

We  only  sink  to  rise  and  dwell  with  God 
An  age  unmeasured  by  successive  years. 

There  we  shall  meet,  dear  mother,  yet  again ! 

Thou  art  but  gone  before  a  little  while  ; 
There  joy  is  endless,  unalloyed  with  pain, 

There  an  eternal  round  of  summers  smile. 

Fly  swift,  ye  winged  hours,  and  be  my  lot 

To  count  but  few,  ere  death  shall  aim  the  dart: 

Then  lowly  let  me  rest  beneath  this  spot, 
And  lose  the  anguish  of  an  aching  heart. 


SHE    IS    NOT    HERE.  225 

Short  be  my  life,  yet  then,  if  sorrows  count, 
A  lengthened  age  should  clothe  my  head  in  snow ; 

Oh  could  my  virtues  gain  but  their  amount, 
Perfection  would  have  once  been  found  below. 

Adieu,  dear  spot !  necessity  commands 

The  youth  who  loves  you  far  from  hence  away  ! 

But  while  a  thought  of  home  his  breast  expands, 
Your  dear  remembrance  never  can  decay ! 


SHE  IS  NOT  HERE. 

She  is  not  here — 'tis  but  her  veil  of  clay 
That  moulders  into  dust  beneath  this  stone  ; 

Mary  herself,  in  realms  of  endless  day, 
Has  put  a  robe  of  fadeless  glory  on. 

This  monumental  urn  is  not  designed 

To  tell  of  beauties  withering  in  the  tomb  ; 

Her  brightest  charms  were  centred  in  a  mind 
Which  still  survives,  and  will  for  ever  bloom. 

Yet  may  this  marble  teach  the  solemn  truth. 
That  virtue  only  can  true  bliss  impart  ; 

While  neither  friendship,  beauty,  health,  nor  youth, 
Can  shield  the  breast  from  death's  insatiate  ckirt. 
1? 


226  ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    CHILD. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD. 

In  life's  parterre,  what  numerous  germs  disclose 

The  loveliest  tints,  the  sweetest  blushing  dyes! 
The  enraptured  florist  views  the  opening  rose, 
Screens  it  from  every  ruder  wind  that  blows, 

And  richer  future  charms  in  embryo  espies. 
But,  ah !  the  spoiler  stalks  abroad,  whose  breath 
Is  pestilence,  whose  chilling  touch  is  death ! 

With  merciless  hand  he  crops  the  flower, 
And  all  its  promised  beauty  flies  — 

It  falls  beneath  his  baneful  power, 

Its  sweets  are  scattered  in  an  hour  ; 
It  shrinks,  it  withers,  droops,  and  dies. 
Yet,  mourn  not,  ye,  whose  fostering  love  and  care 

To  culture  a  beloved  plant  has  failed  ; 
'Tis  but  transplanted  to  a  garden,  where 
Eternal  summer  smiles  ;  't  will  flourish  there 

In  living  hues,  by  spoilers  unassailed. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT.      227 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

Almighty  God!  'tis  right,  'tis  just, 
That  earthly  frames  should  turn  to  dust ; 
But,  ah  !  forgive  the  wishful  tear, 
That  would  detain  a  spirit  here. 

Go,  gentle  babe,  to  realms  of  bliss, 
The  chastening  rod  we  humbly  kiss  ; 
Thy  Saviour  calls  thee  home,  my  son, 
And  let  his  holy  will  be  done. 

Thy  earthly  form,  now  icy  cold, 
Was  framed  in  beauty's  fairest  mould  ; 
But  now,  prepared  by  love  divine, 
A  fairer,  brighter  form  is  thine. 

Thy  earthly  parents  loved  tb.ee  well  — 
So  much,  that  language  fails  to  tell; 
But,  ah  !  our  love  was  weak  and  poor, 
Thy  heavenly  Parent  loves  thee  more. 

Here,  thou  wert  tenderly  caressed, 
Upou  a  fond  maternal  breast  ; 


228      ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AX  INFANT. 

But  angel-nurses,  forms  of  love, 
Shall  now  caress  my  babe  above. 

Fain  would  paternal  love  have  taught 
Thy  little  opening  world  of  thought ; 
But  we  the  pleasing  task  resign 
To  heavenly  schools,  and  books  divine. 

'T  was  all  our  thoughts  and  wishes  still 
To  guard  our  darling  here  from  ill  ; 
But  that  great  God  who  called  thee  home, 
Has  saved  from  greater  ills  to  come. 

Then  let  us  hush  the  rising  sigh, 
And  bid  affliction's  tear  be  dry  ; 
Our  child  still  lives,  his  sorrows  o'er, 
Where  we  shall  meet  to  part  no  more. 

There,  shall  the  sweet  maternal  kiss, 
Increase  his  joy  —  enhance  his  bliss  ; 
There,  through  redeeming  love  and  grace, 
The  father  shall  his  son  embrace. 

Almighty  God  !  H  is  right,  't  is  just, 
That  earthly  frames  should  turn  to  dust  ; 
But,  oh  !  the  sweet,  transporting  truth  — 
The  soul  shall  bloom  in  endless  youth. 


FLORIAN A    MONODY.  229 


FLORIAN  —  A  MONODY. 

My  lyre,  which  erst  to  friendship  tuned,  I  woke 

In  strains  the  sacred  theme  inspired, 
While  with  its  flame  the  glowing  chords  were  fired, 
Ah  !  sad  exchange !  the  tie  of  friendship  broke, 
By  death  dissolved,  must  make  its  sadder  theme! 
While  every  falling  note  with  wo  shall  teem  ! 
To  Florian's  early  fate  the  muse  shall  pay 

Sincere  affection's  purest  lay  ; 
The  emanation  of  a  grief-fraught  soul, 
The  real  feelings  of  an  honest  heart, 
Unfeigned,  and  unadorned  by  art, 
Who  all  her  paler  hues  from  Nature  stole. 

Ye  youths,  ye  virgin  train, 
Whose  eyes  to  his  responsive  smiled, 
When  festive  rites  the  hours  beguiled, 
With  me  complain  ! 
Me,  whom  the  closer  link  of  friendship  joined 
To  his  expanded  heart  —  where  truth,  combined 
With  every  glowing  grace,  superior  shone  ; 
With  me  commingle  sympathetic  tears, 


230  FLOIUAN A    MONODY 

While  faithful  Memory  shall  own 
His  worth,  his  virtues,  past ! 
She  bids  retrace  the  journey  of  his  years, 
Review  the  path,  nor  see  a  blemish  cast. 


Flushed  by  the  balmy  spring  of  youth,  he  rose, 
In  life's  parterre,  a  flower  of  fairest  hue  ; 
Denied  affection's  fostering,  pearly  dew, 
Parental  sunshine  —  yet  his  tints  disclose 

Beauty  internal  —  fragrance  all  his  own  ; 
Benevolence  conspicuous  shone, 
And  nectared  charity  distilled 
In  grateful  odors  !  — Who  beheld  him  bloom 

And  yet  their  love  withheld  ? 
Who,  could  they  have  foreseen  his  early  doom, 

But  would  have  shed  anticipated  tears  ; 
Withheld  the  victim  from  the  insatiate  tomb, 
If  prayers  could  hold,  for  many,  many  years  ? 

But  prayers,  nor  youth,  nor  virtue,  nought  avail 
Against  diseases,  ministers  of  death ! 
The  tyrant  claims  our  forfeit  breath, 
And  who  his  claim  withstands?    Entreaties  fail! 
One  gift  alone  can  make  us  scorn  the  foe, 

Though  not  his  shaft  evade  ; 
The  heavenly  gift  our  Saviour  brought  below, 
Religion,  sweet,  celestial  maid  ! 


FLORTAN A    MONODY.  231 

By    thee    sustained,    the   darkened   path   grows 

bright, 
And  leads  to  realms  of  everlasting  light ! 
Cease,  then,  my  tears,  to  flow, 
Cease,  sighs,  to  murmur  wo, 
This  peerless  guide  my  friend  secured, 
While  he  the  ills  of  life  endured  ; 
Cheered  by  a  seraph's  song, 
The  youth  she  led  along 
The  gloomy  path  —  its  roughness  fled, 
And  Terror  hid  his  grisly  head  ; 
The  gate  of  Paradise  displayed 
Cherubs  in  robes  of  light  arrayed  : 
And  songs  re-echoed  through  the  empyreal  dome, 
As  heavenly  minstrels  hailed  him  welcome  home  ! 

But  selfish  Sorrow  will  intrude  — 
The  loss  is  ours  —  and  Nature  will  be  heard 
Till  Sorrow  is  subdued 

By  cooler  Reason's  un impassioned  sway  ; 
The  worth  we  loved,  the  virtues  we  revered, 

We  must  lament  when  torn  away. 
So  young,  to  fall !  but  youth,  as  hoary  age, 

Finds  no  respect !     The  infant  dies 
When  scarcely  entered  on  the  stage  ; 

His  part  to  ope,  and  then  to  close  his  eyes. 
Some  claim  a  longer  scene,  and  bustle  round 
Their  little  walk,  with  rant  and  sound  ; 


232  FLORIAN A    MONODY. 

The  curtain  drops,  and  they  are  seen  no  more  ! 

Few  labor  onward  through  the  tedious  play 
Till  life's  allotted,  farthest  verge  is  o'er, 

Then  fall  like  fruit  when  autumn  melts  away. 
Thus  is  it  ordered,  Order's  Source  to  please  ; 
Who  will  impeach  his  infinite  decrees  ? 

Granted,  'tis  just  —  yet  sympathy  must  weep  — 
To  see  him  hastening  to  the  silent  dead 
Without  a  kindred  tear  of  sorrow  shed ! 

Nor  bosom  where  to  fall  asleep ! 
Nor  hand  to  close  his  eyes ! 

Strangers  that  mournful  task  performed ! 
Yet  strangers  here  were  friends  ;  their  tears,  their 

sighs, 
From  bosoms  flowed  by  purest  feelings  warmed. 

Friends  tied  by  nature  could  no  more ; 

Nor  more  sincerely  such  a  loss  deplore. 

Might  fond  fraternal  offices  assuage 
The  pangs  of  sore  disease  ? — these  too  denied ! 

For  ah  !  a  brother  still  of  lesser  age, 
At  distance  languished,  while  his  brother  died! 

No  tender  sister  weeping  o'er  his  bed ! 

No  anxious  father  soothing  with  his  love ! 
No  mother !  God  !  I  touch  a  tender  string  ! 

My  heart's  acutest  nerve — its  vital  thread  ; 

Struck  too  unkindly,  tears  of  crimson  move, 
And  wakened  sorrow  whets  her  blunted  sting  \ 


BLRGIAG    LINKS.  -33 

Oh,  grant,  ye  powers  thai  rale  the  lives  of  all, 
If  I  am  doomed,  like  htm  I  mourn,  to  fall  — 
Far  from  the  bosom  of  my  home, 
Where  fate  may  call,  and  I  may  roam  — 
Oh,  grant  my  wish  —  may  hearts  like  those  which 
bled 
O'er  Florian's  corse,  mourn  too  for  me ; 
Such  be  the  strangers  round  my  bed  ; 
Such  be  the  tears  they  shed 
Whoe'er  they  be  : 
Such  be  the  sacred  care  my  ashes  find, 
When  death  has  closed  the  scene  : 
Such  be  the  impression  on  the  youthful  mind, 
When  followers  round  my  grave  convene ; 
But  more  than  all  —  may  I,  like  him,  arise, 
Aud  join  my  friend  in  worlds  beyond  the  skies. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  ANNA  GREENLEAF. 

Her  guardian  angel,  who  had  roved 
Through  scenes  of  heavenly  bliss, 

Hovered  around  the  child  she  loved, 
To  steal  affection's  kiss. 


"A  lovely  girl !"  the  child  exclaimed, 
"A  beauteous  form  I  see, 


234  ELEGTAC    LINES. 

A  messenger  with  love  inflamed, 
And  she  has  come  for  me  !" 

Her  mother  closed  the  infant's  eyes, 

Who'd  meekly  suffered  much  ; 
And  Anna's  spirit  sought  the  skies, 

Led  by  seraphic  touch. 

a  What  bringst  thou  then  ?"  the  Saviour  said- 

The  messenger  replies  : — 
"  A  Green  leaf  rising  from  the  dead, 

To  bloom  in  paradise  I" 

His  arms  did  then  her  form  enfold, 
And  said,  "  My  word  was  given, 

When  I  sojourned  on  earth  of  old, 
That  suck  should  people  heaven ! 

"  Then  welcome,  meek  one,  thou  hast  loved, 

With  filial  love,  thy  duty, 
And  now  from  earth  thou  art  removed, 

Here  thou  shall  bloom  in  beauty." 


EPITAPHS.  235 


EPITAPHS. 


ON    A    YOUTH. 


On,  that  the  icy  touch  of  death  should  blight, 
Just  iu  the  bloom  of  youth,  a  form  so  bright  ; 
When  smiling  hope  illumed  a  cultured  mind, 
Rich  in  endowments  of  the  fairest  kind  ! 
By  all  respected,  by  the  good  approved, 
By  kindred  hearts,  how  tenderly  beloved  ! 
Yet,  cease  to  mourn  —  for  virtue  can  not  die  — 
The  youth  still  lives  in  realms  beyond  the  sky. 


ON    A   WIFE    AND    MOTHER. 

'Tis  filial  love  that  consecrates  this  earth 
To  female  virtue  and  maternal  worth  ; 
Sacred  to  one  who  filled  the  parts  of  life, 
As  daughter,  sister,  mother,  friend,  and  wife. 
And  filled  them  well,  through  each  successive  stage, 
From  playful  childhood  to  declining  age  ; 
Till  mercy  whispered  to  her  soul  —  ''Well  done! 
Enter  to  bliss,  thou  good  and  faithful  one  P 


EPITAPHS. 
AH  !    SEEK   NOT    READER. 


Ah!  seek  not  reader,  worth  like  Lis  to  leant 
From  chiselled  tablet,  or  a  "  storied  urn  ;" 
For  who  to  senseless  marble  can  impart 
The  faintest  impress  of  an  angel's  heart  ? 
The  widowed  hand  which  consecrates  this  stone, 
Would  make  her  love,  not  his  perfections  known  ; 
For  all  a  husband,  parent,  friend,  should  be, 
All  heaven  approves,  or  man  admires,  was  he. 


ON   AN    INFANT. 

Stain  not  this  urn  with  sorrow's  tear, 
Nought  but  a  blighted  leaf  is  here ; 
The  cherished  flower,  not  fully  blown, 
Its  opening  beauties  scarcely  known, 
Was  severed  from  its  earthly  stem, 
To  deck  an  angel's  diadem. 


ON  A  CHARMING  AND  MUCH  LAMENTED  FEMALE. 

This  humble  stone  is  meant  to  show 
That  Anna's  vesture  lies  below  ; 
But  she  who  wore  it  —  she  we  love, 
Is  in  her  bridal  dress  above. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  COLLOQUY  WITH  THE  MUSE.* 

The  muse  and  myself,  the  other  day, 

Held  a  short  colloquy  together ; 
For  she  sometimes  calls,  when  she  comes  that  way, 
Though  scarcely  a  moment  she  deigns  to  stay, 
And  seldom  has  anything  to  say, 
Save,  "  how  d'ye  do  —  what  news  to-day  ! 

*T  is  really  charming  weather." 

She  found  me  alone,  iu  my  elbow  chair  — 

One  arm  has  long  been  broken  — 
In  the  attic,  George  —  you  well  know  where, 
For  once,  last  summer,  I  saw  you  there, 
When  you  kindly  offered  to  pay  my  fare, 

*  This  and  the  two  following  poems  were,  by  the  author,  "  ad- 
dreasod  to  my  friend,  George  P.  Morris,  Esq." 


238  A    COLLOQUY    WITH    THE    .MUSE. 

If  I'd  brush  my  coat,  and  with  you  repair 
To  breathe  a  mouthful  of  country  air, 
On  the  heights  of  green  Hoboken. 

As  I  said  before,  her  ladyship  came, 

En  dishabille,  as  usual, 
In  costume  resembling  the  slipshod  dame 
Whose  Black-look  sketches  are  known  to  fame. 
Her  robe  was  blue,  and  her  hose  the  same, 
Her  sandals  unlaced,  and  her  gait  was  lame, 
As  she  entered  the  room, and  pronounced  my  name 

In  a  manner  and  tone  fiducial. 

"  Good  day  t'ye,  Reuben  —  do  n't  ask  me  to  stay, 

For  I  must  hasten  home  to  my  toilet ; 
As  I  go  out  with  Noma  a -shopping  to-day, 
And  Hinda  goes  with  as —  besides,  I  must  pay 
A  visit  to  Tliirza — it 's  all  in  oar  way, 
And  then  to  Ianthe  I've  something  to  say; 
Besides,  I  must  call  upon  Wet  more  and  Fay, 
And  then  there  would  be  the  Old  Nick  to  pay, 
If  I  didn't  look  in  upon  Morris  too  —  eigh ! 
But  now,  while  I  think  of  it  —  Reuben,  do  say, 
Who  is  that  comical  Cox? — I  will  lay 
He  is  building  a  fame  that  will  never  decay  ; 
And  so  is  my  favorite  Proteus  —  nay, 
Xo  jealousy,  Reuben,  but  win  your  own  bay, 
And  never  let  envv  soil  it. 


A  COLLOQUY  WITH  THE  MUSE.       239 

"Hush!    don't   interrupt   me  —  there's   tender 
Estelle, 
Everard,  Lara,  and  Alpha,  and  Ionian, 
Isidora,  or  Harriet  —  with  sweet  Isabelle, 

And  hundreds  of  others,  are  like  to  excel, 
If  they  treat  me  politely.     But,  Reuben,  do  tell, 
If  I  don't  appear  charming-  in  this  dishabille? 
Say,  why  the  deuce  do  you  grin,  man  ?" 

"You  look,"  I  replied,  "both  ugly  and  old, 

In  these  rascally  dishabille  dresses  ; 
Why,  when  you  are  visiting  others,  I  'm  told, 
The  finest  light  gossamer  vestures  infold 
That  form  and  those  limbs  of  such  exquite  mould, 
With  sandals  that  sparkle  with  spangles  and  gold. 
While  a  chaplet  of  roses  and  diamonds  untold, 
Confine  those  wandering  tresses. 

"  When  others  petition,  you  make  reply, 

In  numbers  of  sweetest  measure, 
But  to  me  you  prate,  like  a  chattering  pie, 
Of  shopping,  and  visits,  and  a  few  small  fry 
Of  Mirror  contributors  —  while  here,  poor  I 

In  silence  must  wait  your  leisure  ! 

u  Why  not  on  me  such  favors  bestow 
As  your  other  votaries  win  ? 


240       A  COLLOQUY  WITH  THE  MUSE. 

Why  prattle  to  me  on  subjects  so  low, 
In  a  tuneless,  senseless  din  ?" 

M  Why,  then,  you  must  know," 

She  said  with  a  smile, 
u  That,  when  here  below, 

I  adapt  my  style 
To  the  company  I  am  in. 

"But,  jesting  apart,  what  is  it  you  claim? 

I  '11  grant  you  the  boon,  I  swear  it  : 
That  is,  if  I'm  able  —  come,  give  it  a  name." 
"Then  fire  me,  at  once,"  I  replied,  "with  the  flame 
That  animates  Halleck,  and  lights  him  to  fame  ; 
To  a  like  dazzling  summit  direct  my  aim, 
Procure  for  my  numbers  an  equal  acclaim ; 
Secure  me  a  chaplet  as  bright  —  not  the  same, 

And  teach  me  as  humbly  to  wear  it." 

She  smiling  replied,  while  her  head  she  shook  — 

II  In  vain  should  I  bid  you  take  it ; 

For  Apollo,  when  late,  with  a  shepherd's  crook, 
He  toyed  with  a  maid,  by  a  gurgling  brook, 
Had  concealed  his  lyre  in  a  private  nook, 
Which  Halleck  observed,  and  slyly  took, 
And  none  but  Halleck  can  wake  it." 


NAY,    ASK    HE    NOT    FOR   WIT   OR    RHYME.    241* 


NAY,  ASK  ME  NOT  FOR  WIT  OR  RHYME. 

Nay,  ask  me  not  for  wit  or  rhyme, 
While  this  blue-devil  weather  lasts, 

The  muses  shun  Columbia's  clime 
During  the  equinoctial  blasts. 

Their  native  home  is  most  serene, 

Where  bright  and  cloudless  skies  are  certain, 
A  mountain's-top —  as  you  have  seen 

At  Chatham  Garden,  on  the  curtain. 

They  '11  not  exchange  a  scene  so  fair, 
Their  verdant  walks  and  rural  sweets, 

To  shiver  in  this  misty  air, 

And  wade  along  our  muddy  streets. 

Then  let  them  still  enjoy  their  revels, 
Remote  from  fiends  of  every  hue, 

For  though  they  smile  on  some  poor  devils. 
They  never  could  abide  the  blue. 

In  July  last,  so  hot  and  dry, 

When  some  expired  for  want  of  brandy, 
16 


242  FASHIONS. 

When  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
And  fans  were  worn  by  every  dandy : 

Then  would  they  come,  and  round  my  taper, 

En  dishabille,  inspire  me  so, 
That,  though  my  sweat  bedewed  the  paper, 

I  wrote  some  melting  lines,  you  know. 

But  ask  me  not  for  wit  or  rhyme, 
While  this  blue-devil  weather  lasts, 

The  muses  shun  Columbia's  clime 
During  the  equinoctial  blasts. 


FASHIONS. 

How  fashions  change  in  this  inconstant  world! 

Powder  and  queues  held  undisputed  sway 
When  I  was  young  ;  anon,  the  hair  was  curled, 

And,  after  that,  the  top-knot  had  its  day. 

The  last,  I  understand,  has  given  way 
To  Saunders'  plain-cropt  crown.     So  much  for 
men  — 

The  ladies  —  bless  their  pretty  faces!  —  may 
Recount  a  thousand  changes  to  our  ten. 
There  were  the  huge  crape  cushion,  hoop,  and  stays, 

To  go  no  further  back ;  —  my  mother  wore  them 


FASHIONS.  .  243 

Before  her  marriage;  —  and,  in  after  clays, 
I  Ve  heard  her  wish  that  fashion  might  restore 
them. 
Short  waists,  and  long,  have  had  alternate  sway, 
Since  hoops  were  banished,  to  the  present  day. 

And  I  have  prized  them  all  —  for  I  confess, 
'Tis  my  opinion,  that  the  virtuous  fair, 

While  they  derive  no  one  new  charm  from  dress, 
Impart  a  charm  to  every  dress  they  wear. 

But  Fashion's  freaks,  we  know,  are  not  confined 
To  the  habiliments  her  votaries  wear  ; 

She  even  dictates  to  the  immortal  mind, 

And  deigns  to  take  beneath  her  tender  care 

Celestial  genius,  fancy,  taste,  and  wit, 

And  e'en  religion,  too,  must  oft  submit ; 

For  since  great  Johnson  frowned  upon  dissenters, 

T  is  the  estallished  church  that  Fashion  enters ; 

And  were  each  pun  a  diamond,  she  'd  not  take 
one, 

Because  the  doctor  had  not  wit  to  make  one; 

Just  as  the  fox  condemned  the  grapes  as  sour, 

Because  he  found  them  not  within  his  power. 

Mark  but  the  movements  of  the  goddess,  through 
A  few  short  years :    Moore's  Lyrics  were  in 
fashion, 


244  FASHIONS. 

Till  Byron's  vision  burst  upon  the  view, 

Scattering,  from  demon  wings,  a  storm  of  passion. 
Then  fashion  taught  her  votaries  to  adore 

The  idol  which  tempestuous  clouds  environ, 
And  left  the  sweet  elvsian  fields  of  Moore, 

To  wander  o'er  the  Upas  realms  of  Byron, 
With  bones  of  human  victims  covered  o'er, 
Or  to  the  snow-capt  mountain  trembling  soar, 
Where  huge  volcanoes  vomit  quenchless  flame, 
Fierce  as  his  soul,  and  brilliant  as  his  fame. 

Scott  was,  awhile,  the  star  of  the  ascendant, 

(If  Scott  wrote  Waverley  and  Kenilworth), 
And  dazzled  with  a  glory  as  resplendent 
As  ever  beamed  upon  the  moral  earth 
Since  Shakespeare  lived,  whose  magic  pen 
Explored  the  very  souls  of  men  : 
Like  his,  for  painting  character  and  passion, 
The  muse  of  Waverley  was  long  in  fashion. 

With  all  such  changes  in  proud  Albion's  clime, 
Allowing,  say  a  month,  for  transportation, 

Their  humble  parasites  have  here  kept  time, 

In  dress  and  morals,  taste  and  conversation. 

?T  is  true,  our  wondrous  spirit  of  invention 
Has  added  to  the  stock  of  information, 

And  there  are  some  improvements  I  could  mention, 
That  add  new  lustre  to  our  reputation. 


FASHIONS.  245 

Awhile  ago,  and  Greece  was  all  the  rage, 

That  is,  we  felt  enraged  against  the  Turks, 
And  every  daily  paper  had  a  page 

Filled  up  entirely  with  their  bloody  works  — 
With  battles,  massacres,  heroic  deeds, 

And  self-devotedness  of  patriot  men, 
And  cruelties  at  which  the  bosom  bleeds, 

When  memory  calls  the  picture  back  again. 
Wives,  mothers,  maids,  compelled  to  slay  them- 
selves, 
Or  yield  to  these  infernal  turbaned  elves. 

One  general  burst  of  honest  indignation 

Was  heard  throughout  the  land  ;  our  public 
halls 
Echoed  to  strains  of  lofty  declamation, 

Or  sweeter  strains  of  fiddles  —  for  our  balls, 
And  every  other  pastime,  were  intended 
To  aid  the  cause  which  Grecian  arms  defended. 
To  save  their  sisters  from  such  cruel  foes, 

Our  patriot  ladies  danced  with  ceaseless  ardor, 
As  some  say  masses  for  the  sake  of  those 

Whose  destiny  below  is  somewhat  harder. 
Whole  families  were  doomed  to  starve  for  weeks, 

(Who  had  no  banker  whom  to  draw  for  cash 
on), 
For  splendid  dresses  worn  to  aid  the  Greeks  ! 

But,  recollect,  the  Greeks  were  then  in  fashion. 


246  FASHIONS. 

Fayette,  who  helped  to  make  Columbia  free, 

The  man  whom  free-born  millions  now  revere, 
Great  Lafayette,  the  friend  of  Liberty, 

Has  been  in  fashion  more  than  half  a  year  ; 
And  will  be  so  for  centuries,  no  doubt, 

For  millions  yet  unborn  shall  shout  his  name, 
And  seek  the  dangerous  path  he  singled  out 

To  reach  the  summit  of  immortal  fame. 

Canals  are  much  in  vogue  at  present,  though 

'T  was  once  the  fashion  to  oppose  them  ; 
From  Maine  to  Georgia  now,  they  're  all  the  go, 

And  half  her  real  wealth  Columbia  owes  them. 
E'en  Darien,  whose  adamantine  throne 

Still  dares  two  kindred  oceans  to  divide, 
Is  doomed  to  see  its  empire  overthrown, 

And  commerce  o'er  its  ruins  proudly  ride. 

But  there's  one  fashion  I  must  not  forget 

On  this  occasion — one  that 's  worth  commending, 
And  justly  venerated,  you'll  admit, 

For  its  antiquiiy  ;  —  'tis  that  of  sending 
To  some  one  we  esteem  on  Xew  Year's  day 
A  short,  familiar,  tributary  lay, 

Such  as  I  now  address  to  you, 
Deficient  both  in  sentiment  and  passion, 

But  ending  with  kind  wishes,  warm  and  true  — 
Accept  it,  George  —  for  I  must  be  in  fashion. 


CANAL    CELEBRATION    ODE.  247 

May  every  bliss  that  Heaven  can  give  be  yours, 
While  the  brief  term  of  human  life  endures ; 
Domestic  joys,  a  moderate  share  of  wealth, 
Contented  mind,  vivacity,  and  health  ; 
Friends  that  are  faithful,  able,  and  refined, 
Children  obedient  —  consort  true  and  kind; 
The  will  and  means  the  child  of  want  to  save, 
And  thus  secure  a  fund  beyond  the  grave. 
If  these  be  yours,  there  can  not  be  a  fear 
But  you  will  hail  with  joy  the  infant  year. 


AN  ODE, 

FOR  THE  GRAND  CANAL  CELEBRATION,  NOV.  4,  1825. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done!  —  The  mighty  chain 
Which  joins  bright  Erie  to  the  Main, 
For  ages,  shall  perpetuate 
The  glory  of  our  native  state. 

T  is  done ! — Proud  Art  o'er  Nature  has  prevailed ! 

Genius  and  perseverance  have  succeeded! 
Though  selfish  Prejudice  assailed, 

And  honest  Prudence  pleaded. 

Tis  done  !  —  The  monarch  of  the  briny  tide, 
Whose  giant  arm  encircles  earth, 


248  CANAL    CELEBRATION    ODE. 

To  virgin  Erie  is  allied, 

A  bright-eyed  nymph  of  mountain  birth. 

To-day,  the  sire  of  Ocean  takes 
A  sylvan  maiden  to  his  arms, 

The  goddess  of  the  crystal  lakes, 
In  all  her  native  charms ! 


She  comes  !  attended  by  a  sparkling  train  ; 

The  Naiads  of  the  West  her  nuptials  grace ; 
She  meets  the  sceptred  father  of  the  main, 
And  in  his  heaving  bosom  hides  her  virgin  face 
Rising  from  their  watery  cells, 
Tritons  sport  upon  the  tide, 
And  gayly  blow  their  trumpet-shells, 

In  honor  of  the  bride. 
Sea-nymphs  leave  their  coral  caves, 
Deep  beneath  the  ocean  waves, 
Where  they  string,  with  tasteful  care 
Pearls  upon  their  sea-green  hair. 

Thetis'  virgin  train  advances, 
Mingling  in  the  bridal  dances  ; 
Jove,  himself,  with  raptured  eye, 
Throws  his  forked  thunders  by, 
And  bids  Apollo  seize  his  golden  lyre, 
A  strain  of  joy  to  wake ; 


CANAL    CELEBRATION    ODE.  249 

While  Fame  proclaims  that  Ocean's  sire 
Is  wedded  to  the  goddess  of  the  lake. 
The  smiling  god  of  song  obey-, 
And  heaven  re-echoes  with  his  sounding  lays. 

I  All  hail  to  the  Art  which  unshackles  the  soul ! 

And  iires  it  with  love  of  glory  ! 
And  causes  the  victor,  who  reaches  the  goal, 
To  live  in  deathless  story  ! 

H  Which  teaches  young  Genius  to  rise  from  earth, 

On  Fancy's  airy  pinion, 
To  assert  the  claims  of  its  heavenly  birth, 

And  seize  on  its  blest  dominion. 

"The  Art  which  the  banner  of  Truth  unfurled, 
When  darkness  veiled  each  nation, 

And  prompted  Columbus  to  seek  a  new  world 
On  the  unexplored  map  of  creation. 

II  Which  lighted  the  path  of  the  pilgrim  band, 

Who  braved  the  storms  of  ocean, 
To  seek,  in  a  wild  and  distant  land, 
The  freedom  of  pure  devotion. 

"  Which  kindled,  on  Freedom's  shrine,  a  flame 
That  will  glow  through  future  ages, 

And  cover  with  glory  and  endless  fame 
Columbia's  immortal  sages. 


250  CANAL    CELEBRATION    ODE. 

"The  Art  which  enabled  her  Franklin  to  prove, 

And  solve  each  mystic  wonder ! 
To  arrest  the  forked  shafts  of  Jove, 

And  play  with  his  bolts  of  thunder. 

11  The  Art,  which  enables  her  sons  to  aspire, 

Beyond  all  the  wonders  in  story. 
For  an  unshackled  press  is  the  pillar  of  fire 

Which  lights  them  to  Freedom  and  Glory. 

';  T  is  this  which  called  forth  the  immortal  decree, 
And  gave  the  great  work  its  first  motion; 

'T  is  done  !  by  the  hands  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  Erie  is  linked  to  the  Ocean. 

"  Then  hail  to  the  Art  which  unshackles  the  soul, 

And  fires  it  with  love  of  glory, 
And  causes  the  victor  who  reaches  the  goal, 

To  live  in  deathless  story." 

Such  strains  —  if  earthly  strains  may  be 

Compared  to  his  who  tunes  a  heavenly  lyre  — 

Are  warbled  by  the  bright-haired  deity, 
While  listening  orbs  admire. 

Such  strains  shall  unborn  millions  yet  awake, 
While,  with  her  golden  trumpet,  smiling  Fame 

Proclaims  the  union  of  the  main  and  lake, 
And  on  her  scroll  emblazons  Clinton's  name. 


THE    GRAND    CAXAL.  251 


THE  GRAND  CANAL. 

^YuILF.  millions  awaken  to  Freedom  the  chorus, 

In  wreathing  for  valor  the  blood-sprinkled  bay, 
The  new  brilliant  era  which  opens  before  us, 

Demands  the  rich  tribute  of  gratitude's  lay; 
For  ours  is  a  boast  unexampled  in  story, 

Unequalled  in  splendor,  unrivalled  in  grace, 
A  conquest  that  gains  us  a  permanent  glory, 

The  triumph  of  science  o'er  matter  and  space! 
For  realms  that  were  dreary,  are  now  smiling 

cheery, 
Since  Hudson  and  Erie  like  sisters  embrace. 

From  heroes  whose  wisdom  and  chivalrous  bearing 

Secured  us  the  rights  which  no  power  can  repeal, 
Have  spirits  descended  as  brilliantly  daring, 

To  fix  on  the  charter  Eternity's  seal. 
Behold  them  consummate  the  giant  conception, 

Unwearied  in  honor's  beneficent  race, 
While  nature  submits  to  the  daring  surreption, 

And  envy  and  ignorance  shrink  in  disgrace. 
For  realms  that  were  dreary,  are  now  smiling 

cheery, 
Since  Hudson  and  Erie  like  sisters  embrace. 


252  THE    GRAND    CANAL. 

The  nymphs  of  our  rivers,  our  lakes,  and  our  foun- 
tains, 

Are  now  by  the  monarch  of  ocean  caressed  ; 
While  spurning  the  barriers  of  forests  and  moun- 
tains, 

Bold  Commerce  enriches  the  wilds  of  the  West. 
Then  hail  to  the  sages,  whose  wisdom  and  labors 

Conceived  and  perfected  the  brilliant  design ; 
Converting  the  remotest  strangers  to  neighbors, 

By  weaving  a  ligament  nought  can  disjoin ; 
For  regions  once  drear}7,  are  now  smiling  cheery, 
Since  Hudson  and  Erie  like  their  waters  combine. 

And  long,  thus  devoted  to  festival  pleasure, 

This  day  shall  be  sacred  to  genius  and  worth, 
For  millions  unborn  shall  rejoice  at  a  measure, 

Which  renders  our  country  the  pride  of  the  earth. 
No  sectional  feelings  now  mar  our  communion, 

Affection  and  interest  are  reckless  of  space, 
The  national  good  is  the  bond  of  our  union, 

Which  ages  shall  brighten  but  never  deface. 
For  realms  that  were  dreary,  are  now  smiling 

cheery, 
Since  Hudson  and  Erie  like  sisters  embrace. 


durant's  address.  253 


DURANTE  ADDRESS. 

ON    ASCENDING    WITH    A    BALLOON    FROM    CASTLE    GARDEN. 

"  I  'm  for  the  air"  —  't  is  sweet  to  fly 
On  silken  pinions,  towards  the  sky, 
To  leave  a  world  of  strife  and  wo 
With  all  its  follies  far  below ; 
While  bending,  Godlike,  from  my  car, 
Responsive  to  the  loud  huzza ! 
With  Freedom's  flag  of  various  hue, 
I  wave  the  wondering  crowds  adieu ! 

"I  'm  for  the  air"  —  'tis  sweet  to  rise 
Above  the  proud,  the  great,  the  wise ; 
'Tis  pleasant  to  look  down  and  see 
Admiring  thousands  gaze  at  me ! 
'T  is  transport  o'er  their  heads  to  soar, 
Who  downward  looked  on  me  before  ; 
Ambition's  bliss  must  be  complete, 
With  all  the  world  beneath  its  feet ! 

"I'm  for  the  air"  —  where  science  hath 
Opened  a  bright  effulgent  path  ; 


254  THE    AERONAUT'S    ADDRESS. 

And  though  my  car,  this  time,  must  sail 
Obedient  to  the  passing  gale, 
Have  patience,  and  no  distant  day. 
Shall  see  me  steer  another  way; 
Across  the  current  shape  my  course, 
Or,  like  the  eagle,  stem  its  force. 

"I'm  for  the  air"  —  ye  sons  of  earth, 
With  spirits  of  ethereal  birth  ; 
Could  thanks  in  real  blessings  fall, 
I  'cl  pour  a  deluge  on  you  all. 
But  fare  you  well !     I  mount  —  I  fly  ! 
This,  Science,  is  thy  victory ! 
Hail  to  a  scene  sublimely  grand  ! 
Hail  !  —  hail  Columbia  !  happy  land  ! 


THE  AERONAUT'S  ADDRESS. 

Good-bye  to  you,  people  of  earth, 

I  am  soaring  to  regions  above  you  ; 
But  much  that  I  know  of  your  worth, 

Will  ever  induce  me  to  love  you. 
Perhaps  I  may  touch  at  the  moon, 

To  give  your  respects  as  I  pass,  sirs, 
And  learn  if  the  spheres  are  in  tune, 

Or  if  they  are  lighted  with  gas,  sirs. 


THE    AERONAUT'S    ADDRESS.  255 

I  will  measure  those  mystical  tilings 

That  encircle  the  spherule  of  Saturn, 
With  Jupiter's  belts  and  his  rings, 

And  draw  out  a  chart  for  a  pattern. 
Then  take  my  departure  for  Mars, 

Perhaps  I  'II  look  down  upon  Venus  ; 
Then  mount  to  the  galaxy  stars, 

And  leave  all  the  planets  between  us. 

The  light,  milky-way  I  will  trace, 

Then,  while  I  am  travelling  from  it, 
Through  unexplored  regions  of  space, 

I  Ml  seize  on  the  tail  of  a  comet. 
The  zodiac  circle  I  '11  run, 

Examine  the  twelve  constellations, 
Then  count  all  the  spots  on  the  sun, 

And  extinguish  the  north  corruscations. 

I  then  shall  descend  to  the  earth, 

And  visit  the  chief  of  the  Tartars, 
Ascertain  what  his  turban  is  worth, 

And  the  cost  of  his  favorite's  garters. 
At  China,  I  think  I  '11  take  tea, 

At  India  some  fruit  I'll  regale  on, 
And  then  over  mountain  and  sea, 

To  Africa  fearlessly  sail  on. 

I'll  visit  the  French  at  Algiers, 
Where  the  lily  now  flourishes  solus, 


256  AX    AERONAUT'S    FAREWELL. 

And  wipe  away  Portugal's  tears, 
By  giving  Don  Miguel  a  bolus. 

While  Ferdinand  vainly  bewails 
The  loss  of  his  Mexican  mines,  sirs, 

I  will  call  upon  Charles  at  Versailles, 
To  taste  of  his  venison  and  wines,  sirs. 

With  William  the  Fourth  I  will  waste 

No  language  of  sycophant  flattery, 
But  cross  the  Atlantic  in  haste, 

And  safely  return  to  the  battery. 
Then,  huzza !  for  the  sons  of  the  West, 

The  country  of  freedom  and  honor, 
A  home  for  the  brave  and  opprest, 

May  blessings  be  lavished  upon  her. 


AN  ^RONAUTS  FAREWELL. 

A  brief  farewell  to  one  and  all, 

I  can  no  more  delay, 
This  huge  distended  silken  ball, 

Mast  bear  me  hence  away. 
And  while  I  fearlessly  soar  afar, 

Through  trackless  fields  of  blue, 
Columbia's  banner  o'er  my  car, 

Shall  wave  my  brief  adieu. 


NEWSPAPERS.  257 

Accept  my  thanks  for  favors  past, 

My  hope  for  more  to  come, 
For  this  short  flight  is  not  my  last, 

If  I  get  safely  home. 
Your  favor  is  my  polar  star, 

My  heart  will  point  to  you, 
As  from  my  little  wicker  car 

I  wave  you  all  adieu. 

My  chariot  waits  —  and  yet  awhile 

I  fondly  linger  nigh, 
To  catch  another  cheering  smile 

From  Beauty's  sparkling  eye. 
A  thousand  thanks — my  buoyant  heart, 

Expands  with  transport  new  — 
Now  —  now  I  'm  ready  to  depart, 

The  cord  is  cut  —  adieu ! 


NEWSPAPERS. 

A   PARAPHRASE   ON   PART    OF   COWPER's    TASK. 

T  is  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
(So  Cowper  sang,  in  strains  divinely  sweet,) 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  and  as  it  turns, 
Survey  at  ease,  the  globe  and  its  concerns  ; 
To  seem  advanced  to  more  than  mortal  height, 

n 


258  newspapers. 

With  this  vast  spherule  rolling  in  your  sight  ; 
To  view  the  noisy  Babel  from  a  cloud, 
Behold  the  bustle,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  mighty  din  she  sends  around, 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Fall  a  soft,  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear, 
And  thus  to  scan  the  whole  without  a  fear. 
The  sound  of  war,  if  such  a  scene  you  view, 
Loses  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  you  ; 
And  desolation,  caused  by  hostile  arms, 
Excites  your  pity,  grieves,  but  not  alarms  ; 
Perhaps  you  mourn  the  avarice  and  pride 
That  render  man  a  cruel  fratricide  ; 
And  at  the  echo  of  those  thunders  start, 
In  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart  ; 
Perhaps  you  wonder  as  it  floats  around, 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble,  at  the  sound. 

As  roves  the  bee,  when  vernal  flowers  expaitf!, 
So  roves  the  traveller  from  land  to  land, 
Where  manners,  customs,  policy,  and  scenes, 
Pay  contributions  to  the  stores  he  gleans ; 
Still  like  the  bee,  in  Summer's  blushing  prime, 
He  sucks  intelligence  from  every  clime ; 
And  on  returning  to  his  native  shores, 
He  thus  spreads  out  his  hoarded,  honied  stores, 
And  welcomes  all  —  a  rich  repast  for  you, 
For,  as  he  travelled,  you  can  travel  too  ; 


THE    ZODIAC.  259 

Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  piercing  eyes 
Behold  new  countries  in  the  distance  rise  : 
With  sympathizing  feeling,  tread  his  deck, 
Or  cling,  in  terror,  to  the  midnight  wreck  ! 
With  kindred  heart,  you  suffer  all  his  woes, 
Share  his  escapes,  his  comforts,  and  repose. 
Thus  may  your  fancy  the  great  circuit  roam, 
"While  (like  a  dial's  index)  safe  at  home. 


THE  ZODIAC. 

Dfar  Julia  —  Philosophers  gravely  assert 
That  our  beautiful  world  is  a  spherule  of  dirt, 
That  rolls,  in  a  circuit,  through  regions  of  space, 
And  passes,  each  year,  through  the  very  same 

place  ; 
That  while  it  turns  over,  by  day  or  by  night, 
We  scarcely  know  whether  we  're  standing  up- 
right ; 
But,  yet,  that  our  love  for  it  sticks  us  so  fast, 
We  can  not  fall  off — but  adhere  to  the  last. 

The  truth  of  such  doctrine  I  will  not  dispute, 
Because  I  'in  engaged  in  another  pursuit ; 
Besides,  since  I  first  crept  about  this  machine, 
Such  queer  topsy-turvy  manceuvres  I  've  seen, 


260  THE    ZODIAC. 

That  twenty  to  one  (as  the  learned  have  said) 
But  mortals  are,  half  the  time,  heels  over  head. 
Yet,  still,  as  a  poet,  you  known,  I  am  bound 
To  believe  that  the  sun  always  travels  around 
The  turnpike  of  heaven,  in  chariot  of  fire, 
Drawn  rapidly  onward  by  steeds  that  ne'er  tire, 
Nor  stop  to  refresh,  though  they  pass,  as  they  fly, 
The  signs  of  a  dozen  fine  inns,  in  the  sky. 

When  last  I  addressed  you,  this  bright  charioteer 
Was  galloping  on  in  his  brilliant  career, 
The  steeds  from  their  nostrils  still  vomiting  flame, 
As  past  the  next  stage-house  they  rapidly  came. 
Poor  Phcebus  in  vain  might  have  thirsted  for  wine, 
For  nothing  but  water  appeared  on  the  sign  : 
So  onward  he  drove  in  the  bright,  starry  zone, 
And  left  the  cold,  cheerless  Aquarius  alone. 

The  scaly  star,  Pisces,  soon  greeted  his  eye, 
His  old  stopping-place,  if  the  ancients  do  n't  lie, 
Who  counted  this  stage  as  the  last  on  his  route, 
Its  sign  is  so  tempting  —  a  fine  salmon  trout. 
But  soon  the  fierce  steeds  left  it  far  in  the  rear, 
For  another,  that  promised  some  mutton,  was  near; 
That  Ram  which  had  once  a  fair  rider  upon  Jt, 
And  let  her  fall  plump  in  the  famed  Hellespont; 
The  crooked-horn  Aries,  whose  rich  golden  fleece 
Was  carried  by  Jason,  in  triumph,  to  Greece, 


THE    ZODIAC.  261 

Was  the  sign  that  invited  the  driver  to  bait, 
But  nothing,  it  seems,  could  induce  him  to  wait  ; 
A  crack  of  his  whip,  and  the  mettlesome  steeds 
Start  forward  like  lightning,  while  Aries  recedes. 

But  Phoebus, 'tis  said,  when  he  saw  the  next  sign, 
Was  almost  determined  to  stop  and  to  dine  ; 
For  the  golden-horned  Bull,  which  so  gallantly 

bore 
The  lovely  Eurojpa  to  Crete's  happy  shore, 
Invitingly  promised,  for  hunger's  relief, 
A  fine,  smoking  sirloin  of  English  roast  beef. 

Apollo,  however,  regardless  of  inns, 
Drove  onward,  nor  even  accosted  the  Twins, 
Those  famous  Tyndarian  brothers,  that  dwell, 
By  changes  alternate,  in  heaven  or  hell  ; 
The  comrades  of  Jason  in  winning  the  fleece, 
Whose  smiles,  it  is  said,  lull  the  tempest  to  peace. 
If  sailors  sincerely  their  favors  invoke, 
To  save  from  the  wreck  which  the  billows  have 

broke. 
Behind  were  the  Crab  and  the  Lion  afar, 
As  well  as  the  Virgin,  Erigone's  star  ; 
Astrea's  bright  balance  now  glowed  on  his  sight, 
It  trembled  —  he  threw  in  a  handful  of  light, 
And  finding  the  darkness  just  equalled  the  day, 
He  whipped  up  his  horses,  and  posted  away. 


262  THE    SEASONS. 

The  Scorpion  and  Centaur  he  rapidly  passed, 
Ami  Pan,  his  old  friend,  lie  saluted  at  last  ; 
For  Lis  steeds,  at  the  moment  these  verses  were 

wrote, 
Were  galloping  np  to  the  sign  of  the  Goat. 
In  pure,  native  English,  your  minstrel  would  say, 
That  another  New  Year  is  commencing  to-day. 

Dear,  Julia,  may  blessings  attend  its  return, 
While  life's  little  taper  continues  to  burn; 
And  then,  when  the  last  welcome  summons  you 

hear, 
May  you  wake  to  a  happy,  thrice  happy  New  Year. 


THE  SEASONS. 

Julia  —  each  season  of  the  changeful  year, 
In  every  stage  of  fleeting  Time's  career, 
Comes  with  a  wreath  of  joy  around  it  thrown, 
Some  bliss,  peculiar  to  itself  alone  ; 
For  Heaven,  throughout  creation's  wondrous  plan, 
Has  had  but  one  end  —  the  happiness  of  man. 

Pregnant  with  buds  and  flowers,  the  Spring 
appears, 
Like  a  young  bride,  arrayed  in  smiles  and  tears ; 


THE    SEASONS.  263 

Then  sweetest  odors  float  ou  every  breeze, 
And  new-made  liveries  clothe  the  sturdy  trees  ; 
Eaeli  bush  and  shrub  a  verdant  garb  assumes, 
The  apple  blossoms,  and  the  lilae  blooms; 
A  thousand  flowerets  in  the  meadow  spring, 
And  feathered  choirs  their  grateful  anthems  sing; 
While  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array, 
Hail,  with  delight  the  bright  return  of  May. 

Then  Summer  comes,  the  noontide  of  the  year, 
When  the  sun  gallops  in  his  full  career  ; 
She  comes  —  her  brows  with  yellow  wheat-ears 

crowned, 
Her  laughing  face  by  heat  and  toil  embrowned ; 
She  comes  with  full  and  bounteous  hand  to  bring 
All  that  was  promised  by  the  hopeful  Spring. 
T  is  then  the  long-protracted,  sultry  day, 
Perfects  the  embryon  blossoms  on  each  spray ; 
Bids  the  young  fruit  with  richest  juices  teem, 
And  blush  and  ripen  in  the  solar  beam; 
Then  scarlet  strawberries  court  the  eager  taste, 
And  luscious  melons  yield  a  sweet  repast; 
While  nectarious  berries  of  each  varied  dye, 
On  every  bush  and  bramble  greet  the  eye. 

Next,  temperate  Autumn  comes  upon  the  stage, 
The  sober  mean  'twixt  vigorous  youth  and  age  ; 
The  evening  twilight  of  the  fading  year, 


264  THE    SEASONS. 

When  objects  all  in  mellowest  tints  appear  ; 
When  feathered  songster  cease  their  tuneful  notes, 
And  liveried  groves  appear  with  yellow  coats ; 
The  fruit-trees  then,  with  golden  burdens  bend, 
And  clustering  grapes  from  shadowy  vines  impend; 
Pomona's  treasures  lie  in  heaps  around, 
Scattered  in  rich  profusion  on  the  ground ; 
From  juicy  apples,  tortured  in  the  mill, 
Sweet  streams  of  grateful  beverage  distil ; 
While  ponderous  wagons  every  field  displays, 
Groaning  beneath  their  loads  of  ripened  maize. 

Winter   succeeds,  with   snow-wreaths  on   his 
brow  — 
Julia,  I  feel  his  icy  fingers  now ! 
Winter  succeeds  —  the  midnight  of  the  year, 
And  all  the  fields  are  barren,  cold,  and  drear ; 
He  binds  the  streams  and  lakes  in  silver  chains, 
And  hoary  frost  has  candied  all  the  plains ; 
The  liveried  trees  their  yellow  coats  forego, 
And  shivering  stand,  in  shrouds  of  frozen  snow; 
While  the  chilled  sap  leaves  succorless  the  shoot, 
And  shrinks  below,  to  cheer  the  dying  root. 

Nor  is  stern  Winter's  icy  sceptre  swayed 
O'er  sylvan  scenes  alone  —  his  shafts  invade 
Our  splendid  t^ity,  too  —  and  every  street 
Is  rendered  cheerless  by  his  pointed  sleet ; 


THE    SEASONS.  265 

For  every  arrow  from  the  centaur's  bow, 
Is  tipped  with  ice,  and  feathered,  too,  with  snow. 
The  Battery,  now,  each  verdant  charm  has  lost, 
And  e'en  the  Park  is  silvered  o'er  with  frost ; 
Yauxhall  and  Castle-Garden,  late  so  gay, 
Where  night  gave  place  to  artificial  day, 
Are  now  deserted  —  even  Chatham  mourns, 
And  all  must  droop  till  gentle  Spring  returns. 

But  still,  amid  his  tempest's  rude  alarms, 
Still  Winter  brings  his  own  redeeming  charms; 
Pleasures  to  no  preceding  season  known, 
Delights  peculiar  to  himself  aloue. 
His  gelid  breath  (a  healthful  vapor,  which 
Screws  up  this  living  lyre  to  concert-pitch) 
Enriches  every  fluid,  and  preserves 
An  equal  tension  of  the  chords  and  nerves. 
Elastic  as  the  air,  our  spirits  soar, 
By  heat  and  languor  now  depressed  no  more ; 
While  health  and  vigor  wanton  through  our  veins, 
And  drive  each  azure  demon  from  the  brains. 

But  that  blest  space  between  the  day  and  night, 
A  winter's  evening,  give  the  most  delight ; 
Sacred  to  friendship,  love,  and  social  mirth, 
When  kindred  souls  surround  the  blazing  hearth, 
Where  wine,  and  wit,  and  sentiment  abound, 
And  modest  jests  and  repartees  go  round. 


266  THE    SEASONS. 

Or  if  the  same  domestic,  happy  group, 

Adjourn  to  hear  our  new  Italian  troupe;* 

Or  gaze  intensely  on  the  tragic  scene, 

When  Conway,  Cooper,  Hamblin,  Booth,  or  Kean, 

Pours  a  bright  flood  of  wonder  o'er  their  minds, 

And  in  his  train  the  captive  stranger  binds  ;  — 

Whether  they  join  in  laughing  with  the  pit, 

At  Barnes's  humor,  or  at  Hilson's  wit; 

Tremble  at  base  Iago's  cruel  hate, 

Or  mourn  for  lovely  Belvidera's  fate; 

Or  weep,  at  Chatham,  for  poor  Blanche's  grief, 

Inflicted  by  Clan  Alpine's  desperate  chief; 

And  then,  in  pleased  and  breathless  silence,  hear 

The  requiem  chanted  o'er  his  silent  bier  ; 

Or  with  the  brave  Fitz-James,  admiring  view, 

Fair  Ellen  guide  her  little  frail  canoe  ; 

Or  view  the  Ethiop,  from  the  Turkish  tomb, 

Rise  like  a  troubled  spirit  through  the  gloom  ; 

Or  should  they  mingle  in  the  mazy  dance, 

Where   hearts  bound  quick  at  beauty's  tender 

glance, 
'T  is  still  domestic  bliss,  where  'cr  they  roam, 
For  every  place,  to  kindred  hearts,  is  home. 

But  Winter's  brightest  joy,  in  towns  like  this, 
Is  yet  unsung  —  I  mean  that  scene  of  bliss 
To  which  our  annual  holydays  give  birth, 

*  This  epistle  was  written  on  Christmas  Eve,  1S25. 


THE    SEASON'S.  267 

A  foretaste  of  clysium  here  on  earth  ! 
That  period  to  generous  hearts  so  dear, 
That  iittle  week  of  joy  that  shuts  the  year, 
And  brings  to  light  the  bright  auspicious  morn, 
When  all  unite  to  hail  a  New  Year  born  ! 

In  all  my  wanderings  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
From  infancy,  to  manhood's  riper  years, 
Whatever  pains  assailed,  or  griefs  oppressed, 
Christmas  and  New  Year  always  saw  me  blest! 
A  lengthened  absence  o'er,  how  pleasant,  then, 
The  friends  I  dearest  love  to  meet  again! 
Grasp  the  warm  hand,  or  share  the  fond  embrace, 
And  see  new  smiles  lit  up  in  every  face! 
rf  was  Christmas  eve!  the  supper  board  was  spread, 
The  fire  blazed  high,  with  logs  of  hickory  fed; 
The  candles,  too,  unusual  lustre  lent, 
Caudles  expressly  made  for  this  event. 
Old  tales  were  told,  the  cheerful  glass  went  round, 
While  peals  of  laughter  made  the  cot  resound, 
A  thousand  welcomes  hailed  the  truant  boy, 
And  swift  the  moments  flew  on  wings  of  joy  ; 
Till  (as  they  thought,  too  soon)  the  hour  of  prayer 
Bade  the  young  urchins  to  their  beds  repair. 
])iit  first  the  stocking,  from  each  little  leg, 
jNIust  be  suspended  to  a  hook  or  peg, 
That  Santa  Clans,  who  travels  all  the  night, 
Might,  in  the  dark,  bestow  his  favors  right ; 


268  THE    SEASONS. 

These  rites  observed,  they  take  a  parting  kiss, 
And  go  to  dream  of  morning's  promised  bliss ! 
Thus  did  a  week  of  festive  pleasures  roll, 
Till  New  Year's  happy  morning   crowned  the 
whole. 

But  though  long  past  are  days  and  joys  so 
dear, 
Others  as  sweet  still  crown  each  fleeting  year ; 
E'en  brighter  pleasures,  now,  't  is  mine  to  prove, 
In  Julia's  friendship,  and  my  Lydia's  love. 
While  our  gay  prattlers,  innocent  as  young, 
Re-act  the  drama  here  so  coldly  sung, 
Accept  this  token  of  my  pure  regard, 
The  Seasons,  sung  by  an  immortal  bard, 
The  peerless  Thompson  ;  hear  his  rural  strains, 
And  you  '11  forget  that  blustering  winter  reigns  ; 
Accept  this  tribute  of  a  heart  sincere, 
And  be  you  happy  many  a  future  year. 


THE    FIREMAN.  269 


THE  FIREMAN, 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  DUFF,  FOR  THE  FIREMEN'S  BENEFIT, 
JANUARY    24,    1827. 

Hoarse  wintry  blasts  a  solemn  requiem  sung 

To  the  departed  day  —  upon  whose  bier 
The  velvet  pall  of  midnight  had  been  flung, 

And  nature  mourned  through  one  wide  hemis- 
phere. 
Silence  and  darkness  held  their  cheerless  sway, 

Save  in  the  haunts  of  riotous  excess  ; 
And  half  the  world  in  dreamy  slumbers  lay, 

Lost  in  the  maze  of  sweet  forgetfulness. 

When  lo !  upon  the  startled  ear 
There  broke  a  sound,  so  dread  and  drear, 
As,  like  a  sudden  peal  of  thunder, 
Burst  the  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  filled  a  thousand  throbbing  hearts  with  fear. 
Hark  !  the  faithful  watchman's  cry 
Speaks  a  conflagration  nigh  ! 
See  !  yon  glow  upon  the  sky 
Confirms  the  fearful  tale  I 


270  THE    FIREMAN. 

The  deep-mouthed  bells,  with  rapid  tone, 
Combine  to  make  the  tidings  known  ; 
Affrighted  silence  now  has  down. 
And  sound  of  terror  freight  the  chilly  gale ! 

At  the  first  note  of  this  discordant  din, 

The  gallant  Fireman  from  his  slumber  starts, 
Reckless  of  toil  or  danger,  if  he  win 
The  tributary  meed  of  grateful  hearts. 
From  pavement  rough,  or  frozen  ground, 
His  engine's  rattling  wheels  resound, 

And  soon,  before  his  eyes, 
The  lurid  flames,  with  horrid  glare, 

Mingled  with  murky  vapor,  rise 
In  wreathy  folds,  upon  the  air, 
And  veil  the  frowning  skies ! 

Sudden,  a  shriek  assails  his  heart ! 

A  female  shriek!  so  piercing  wild 
As  makes  his  very  life-blood  start  — 

"  My  child !  —  Almighty  God  !  —  My  child'" 

He  hears  —  and  'gainst  the  tottering  wall 

The  ponderous  ladder  rears, 
While  blazing  fragments  round  him  fall, 

And  crackling  sounds  assail  his  ears! 
His  sinewy  arm,  with  one  rude  crash, 
Hurls  to  the  earth  the  opposing  sash, 


NEW    YORK.  271 

And,  heedless  of  the  startling  din, 

Though  smoky  volumes  round  him  roll, 
The  mother's  shriek  has  pierced  his  soul ! 
Sec  !  —  See  !  —  He  plunges  in  ! 

The  admiring  crowd,  with  hopes  and  fears, 

In  breathless  expectation  stand  ! 
When  lo  !  the  daring  youth  appears, 
Hailed  by  a  burst  of  warm,  ecstatic  cheers, 
Bearing  the  child,  triumphant,  in  his  hand  ! 


NEW  YORK. 

Hail!  happy  city  !  where  the  arts  convene 
And  busy  commerce  animates  the  scene  ; 
Where  taste,  and  elegance,  with  wealth  combine, 
To  perfect  art,  in  every 'bright  design  ; 
Where  splendid  mansions  that  attract  the  eye, 
Can  boast,  what  opulence  could  never  buy, 
The  generous  wish  that  springs  to  Virtue's  goal, 
The  liberal  mind,  the  high,  aspiring  soul  ; 
The  freeborn  wish  that  warms  the  patriot's  breast. 
The  chaste  refinements  that  make  beauty  blest  : 
These  are  the  charms  that  give  Industry,  here, 
A  pleasing  relish,  and  a  hope  sincere  ; 
And  while  they  bid  the  sighs  of  anguish  cease, 
Strew  Labor's  pillow  with  the  flowers  of  peace. 


272  NEW   YORK. 

When  the  sad  exile,  freed  from  ocean's  storm, 
First  treads  our  shore,  what  hopes  his  bosom 

warm  I 
For  welcome  meets  him  with  an  honest  smile, 
And  kind  attentions  every  care  beguile. 
No  dread  of  tyrants  here  his  peace  annoys, 
No  fears  of  fetters  mar  his  bosom's  joys  ; 
No  dark  suspicions  on  his  steps  attend, 
He  only  needs  one,  here,  to  find  a  friend  ; 
He  finds,  at  once,  a  refuge  and  a  home, 
Nor  longer  mourns  the  cause  that  bade  him  roam. 

Where'er  he  turns,  on  every  side  are  traced 
The  marks  of  genius,  and  enlightened  taste ; 
He  sees  in  every  portico  and  dome, 
The  architectural  grace  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  finds,  in  our  unrivalled  promenades, 
Charms  that  may  vie  with  A then's  classic  shades, 
That  rural  scene  that  skirts  the  loveliest  bay 
That  ever  sparkled  in  the  solar  ray ; ' 
Where  the  rude  engines  of  relentless  Mars, 
Once  frowned,  in  ranks,  beneath  Columbia's  stars, 
But  which  have  since  for  ever  yielded  place 
To  fashion,  beauty,  elegance,  and  grace  — 
That  lovely  scene  first  greets  the  wanderer's  eye, 
And  cheats  his  bosom  of  a  passing  sigh, 
So  like  some  spots  upon  his  native  shore, 
By  him,  perhaps,  to  be  enjoyed  no  more ! 


NEW    YORK.  273 

On  either  hand,  a  mighty  river  glides, 
Which  here,  at  length,  unite  and  mingle  tides, 
Like  some  fond  pair,  affianced  in  the  skies, 
Whose  forms,  as  yet,  ne'er  met  each  other's  eyes, 
When  the  auspicious  fated  moment  rolls, 
They  meet — they  love — unite,  and  mingle  souls. 

Magnific  piles,  the  monuments  of  art, 
And  lofty  spires,  adorn  this  splendid  mart, 
Where  Piety  erects  her  sacred  shrine, 
And  pays  her  homage  to  the  power  divine  ; 
Where  heaven-born  "  genius  wings  his  eagle  flight, 
Rich  dew-drops  shaking  from  his  wings  of  light  f 
Where  Science  opens  wide  his  boundless  store 
Of  classic  sweets  and  antiquated  lore  ; 
Where  freedom,  virtue,  knowledge,  all  unite 
To  make  the  scene  an  Eden  of  delight  ; 
While  pulpit,  press,  and  bar,  are  all  combined 
To  mend  the  heart,  and  elevate  the  mind. 

Nor  do  these  mighty  engines  toil  alone, 
By  other  hands  the  seeds  of  taste  are  sown. 
The  Drama  opes  its  bright,  instructive  scenes ; 
Its  object  use — amusement  but  the  means  : 
For  though  the  muse  resort  to  fiction's  aid, 
Fiction  is  here,  but  truth  in  masquerade, 
And  thousands,  who  her  grave  entreaties  shun, 
Are,  by  her  borrowed  smiles,  allured  and  won. 
18 


274  YALE    COLLEGE. 


YALE   COLLEGE. 

Access  is  mine,  the  willing  gates  unfold, 
And  Yale's  assembled  sons  mine  eyes  behold  ; 
Our  future  statesmen,  patriots,  bards,  divines, 
For  whom  bright  Fame  the  fadeless  laurel  twines, 
And  here  convened,  and  in  each  youthful  nice 
Their  rising  greatness  fancy  fain  would  trace. 
Say,  are  not  here  some  souls  that  restless  burn, 
On  life's  great  stage  to  take  an  active  turn  ; 
To  rise,  the  awful  pillars  of  the  state, 
And  rival  ancient  Tully  in  debate  ? 
Some  who  possess  a  portion  of  that  flame 
That  gained  our  Washington  immortal  fame  ? 
Others,  whose  philanthropic  bosoms  glow 
To  act  like  Franklin  in  relieving  wo  ? 
Whose  philosophic  souls  his  fame  inspires 
To  wield  the  thunder  and  direct  its  fires; 
To  soar,  on  Fancy's  wing,  through  trackless  space, 
View  countless  orbs  and  all  their  movements  trace, 
Governed  by  order  and  unchanging  laws, 
And  in  effects  behold  the  eternal  cause  ? 
Some  glowing  with  a  Homer's  living  fire, 
Designed  to  "  wake  to  ecstasy  the  lyre," 


YALE    COLLEGE.  275 

To  bid  Columbia's  future  fame  arise, 
Aiul  rear  Parnassus  under  western  skies; 
Here  fix  the  temple  of  the  tuneful  throng1, 
And  rival  Albion's  boasted  sons  of  song? 
Or  arc  not  here  some  destined  yet  to  shine, 
With  cloudless  lustre,  in  the  desk  divine  ; 
To  wake  the  soul,  and  guide  its  feeble  view 
To  Him  who  made,  and  can  its  form  renew  ; 
Recall  the  wandering  wretch,  his  course  restrain, 
And  gently  lead  him  to  the  fold  again  ; 
Arouse  the  careless,  and  support  the  weak, 
And  gospel  truths  with  voice  unfaltering  speak  ? 

%.  %  ;Js  *  >fc  %  $ 

Hail,  sons  of  Genius!  youthful  sages,  hail! 
The  glory,  pride,  support,  and  boast  of  Yale ; 
Your  country's  ornaments  aspire  to  prove, 
And  grace  the  spheres  in  which  you're  called  to 

move  ; 
So  shall  your  Alma  Mater  rise  in  fame, 
And  deathless  honors  decorate  her  name. 
And  here  the  muse  bewails  her  hapless  bard, 
Whose  cruel  fate  such  golden  prospects  marred, 
For  Hope  once  whispered  to  his  ardent  breast, 
*;  Thy  dearest,  fondest  wish  shall  be  possessed'' — 
Unfolded  to  his  view  the  classic  page, 
And  all  its  treasures  promised  ripening  age  ; 
Showed  Learning's  flowery  path  which    led    to 

Fame, 


276  TO    MRS.    MARY    W.    MORRIS. 

Whose  distant  temple  glittered  with  his  name. 
Illusive  all ! — the  phantom  all  believe, 
Though  still  we  know  her  promises  deceive  ; 
Chill  penury  convinced  the  wretch  too  late, 
Her  words  were  false,  and  his  a  hapless  fate. 


TO  MRS.  MARY   WORTHINGTON    MORRIS, 

(the  amiable  and  beloved  wife  of  my  much  esteemed  friend 
and  brother-poet  george  p.  morris.) 


The  seer  of  old,  whose  name  I  bear, 

The  prophet  who  anointed  Saul, 
Predicted  man)7  a  bright  affair 

To  grace  the  rising  chief  withal  : 
So  I,  once  gazing  on  a  youth, 

From  boyhood  just  emerging, 
With  genius,  talent,  virtue,  truth, 

To  acts  of  greatness  urging — 
Predicted  that  an  angeVs  hand, 
Would  lead  him  to  the  'promised  land. 

Years  rolled  away,  and  Fame  was  his, 
With  blessings  of  the  wise  and  good  ; 

And  while  o'er  Hope's  sad  obsequies 
Thousands  as  drooping  mourners  stood, 


MORNING.  -»T 

He  smiled  in  triumph — for  success 
With  liberal  hand  had  crowned  him  ; 

And  Beauty's  smile,  with  Love's  caress, 
In  silken  cords  had  bound  him. 

i"  saw  t/ie  angel  at  his  side — 

'  Twas  thou — his  counsellor  and  guide. 

New  Yobk,  May  20th,  1833. 


MORNING. 

The  morn,  in  purple  glories  bright, 
Now  burst  upon  the  rear  of  Night, 
Who,  gathering  up  his  lurid  vest, 
Is  swift  retreating  towards  the  west. 
All  nature  wakes  from  soft  repose, 
The  flowers  their  dewy  breasts  unclose, 
Where  insect  tribes  their  votaries  pay, 
And  sip  their  nectared  sweets  away. 
The  birds  commence  their  matin  song, 
And  streams  of  music  float  along  : 
The  herds  their  grassy  couch  forsake, 
To  crop  the  mead,  or  taste  the  lake, 
And  all  cominei.ee  the  infant  day, 
As  toil  or  pleasure  points  the  way. 


278  TO    ARTHUR    KEEXE    THE    VOCALIST. 


TO  ARTHUR  KEENE   THE  VOCALIST. 

The  minstrel  of  Erin,  who  charmed  us  before, 

Returns  from  the  warm,  sunny  isles, 
Again  on  the  pure  air  of  Freedom  to  pour 

The  strain  which  elicits  her  smiles. 
A  freeman  must  cherish  its  witchery  long, 

Though  years  have  been  wasted  between ; 
When  erst  he  awakened  dear  liberty's  song, 

The  thrill  of  our  rapture  was  keen  ; 
The  current  of  feeling  rolled  sweetly  along, 

And  its  thrill  was  delightfully  keen. 

He  comes  from  the  rich  spicy  isles  of  the  West, 

Unrivalled  in  science  and  tone, 
And  warmly  is  greeted  by  those  who  caressed, 

When  first  his  enchantments  were  known. 
Again  will  he  waken  his  magical  lyre, 

Again  cast  a  spell  o'er  the  scene, 
Till  hearts  long  dejected  will  kindle  with  fire, 

And  confess  that  the  rapture  is  keen. 
Oh,  his  are  the  tones  which  can  feeling  inspire, 

And  its  thrill  is  deltehtfull v  keen. 


impromptus  on  rhakesprAre.  279 


THREE  IMPROMPTUS  ON  THE  ROOM  IN  WHICH 
SHAKESPEARE  WAS  BORN. 

Here  wast  thou  born  !    Immortal  Shakespeare  ! 

here ! 
"  No  matter  where  !"  —  thy  fame  is  just  as  dear 
To  freemen  on  the  mighty  Hudson's  side 
As  where  the  Avon's  crystal  waters  glide  :  — 
Xo  town,  no  realm,  no  hemisphere  can  claim 
A  bard  like  thee,  of  universal  fame  !  — 
As  ancient  Bethlehem  had  sure  blasphemed, 
To  claim  the  glory  of  a  world  redeemed  ! 

This  little  room  the  place  of  Shakespeare's  birth  ! 
Of  him  whose  deathless  glory  fills  the  earth ! 
Perish  the  fiction!  —  that  immortal  mind, 
By  walls  nor  limits  could  not  be  confined  :  — 
'T  was  born  in  Heaven,  and  merely  paused  awhile, 
To  take  a  robe  of  flesh  from  Britain's  isle. 


Borx  in  this  room  !  — that  I  deny  :  - 

I  VI  life  and  honor  pawn, 
That  one  like  him,  who  can  not  die, 

Could  never  have  been  born  ! 


280  TO    MRS. 


CRITICS. 

Who  seeks  for  spots  in  Sol,  must  gaze 
Through  mediums  that  obstruct  his  rays ; 
So  jealous  envy's  jaundiced  eye, 
Hides  beauties,  trivial  faults  to  spy. 
We  own  our  work  has  some  defects, 
?Tis  what  each  candid  mind  expects ; 
But  has  it  marks  of  taste  and  talents? 
In  mercy  let  that  strike  the  balance. 


TO  MRS.  OX  HER  EMBARKING  FOR 

HAVRE. 

Lady,  we  part  —  I  do  not  say  farewell  ! 

So  cold  a  word  my  heart  will  not  allow ; 
'Tis  breathed  too  often  when  no  bosoms  swell 

With  such  emotions  as  oppress  me  now ; 
For  I  remember  well  when  first  we  met, 

And  note  the  years  we  since  have  seen  depart, 
By  acts  of  kindness  I  can  ne'er  forget, 

Graved  deeply  on  the  tablets  of  my  heart. 


TO    MRS.    .  281 

This  monitor  ne'er  sleeps ;  but  I've  another, 

Who  hourly  breathes  her  grateful  prayers  for 
thee ; 
For  kindness  to  my  children  —  it  is  their  mother, 

Whose  blessings  will  attend  thee  on  the  sea. 
She  prays  to  Him  who  stilled  the  boisterous  wave 

Of  Galilee,  and  hushed  the  tempest  wild  ; 
She  prays  that  His  kind  providence  may  save 

The  widowed  mother  and  her  darling  child. 

Lady,  we  part — and  here  thy  friends  are  doomed 

To  mourn  in  tears  thy  absence  for  awhile  ; 
But  not  with  hopeless  grief,  for  'tis  presumed, 

A  happy  meeting  yet  will  light  our  smile. 
Go,  then,  where  love  invites  thee  —  Gallia  fair, 

Land  of  the  vine  and  sweet  perennial  flowers  ; 
Thy  children's  fond  embrace  awaits  thee  there ; 

Receive  them,  then,  and  fly  again  to  ours. 

No  prayers  can  shield  thee  from  each  treacherous 
gale, 

Or  were  this  trifle  blest  with  magic  power, 
Thy  venturous  bark  should  have  a  prosperous  sail, 

While  memory  wakened  every  lonely  hour — 
Recalling  thoughts  with  us  again  to  dwell, 

When  rough  old  ocean  turbulently  raves  — 
With  us  who  feel,  but  can  not  say  farewell ! 

To  those  we  love  upon  the  stormy  wave. 


282  TO    MY    FRIEND    MR.    E.    PARMLY. 


TO   MY  FRIEND,    MR.  E.  PARMLY, 

ON   THE    MORNING  OF   HIS   DEPARTURE    FOR   EUROPE, 
JULY    8TH,  1824. 

When,  on  ebon  car  advancing, 

Mellow  eve  resumes  her  sway, 
While  on  rippling  waters  dancing. 
Brightly  sparkles  Cynthia's  ray, 
Freed  from  languid  day's  dominion, 
Hearts  are  light, 
Eyes  are  bright, 
Music  playing, 
Zephyrs  straying, 
Fan  the  groves  with  balmy  pinion  ; 
Then  will  I  remember  thee, 
Wilt  thou,  then,  too,  think  of  me  ? 

When  through  sheets  of  fleecy  vapor, 
Glows  the  zenith's  starry  dome  ; 

When  the  glow-worm  lights  her  taper, 
To  allure  her  rover  home  ; 

While  pale  Avarice  counts  his  treasure, 


TO    THEODORE    S.    FAY.  283 

Lovers  meet, 

Moments  sweet, 

Vows  renewing, 

Doubts  subduing, 
'Tis  the  hour  of  purest  pleasure  ; 
Then  will  I  remember  thee, 
Then  bestow  one  thought  on  me. 


TO   THEODORE   S.    FAY, 

ON   HIS  DEPARTURE   FOR   EUROPE. 

The  sails  are  unfurled,  and  the  anchor  apeak, 

The  pilot  is  now  at  the  wheel, 
Adieu !  we  must  lose  thee  !  but  words  are  too  weak 

To  express  the  emotions  we  feel ! 
May  fresh  western  breezes,  propitiously  fair, 

Thy  gallant  bark  safely  propel, 
While  we  will  invoke,  in  each  soul-breathing  prayer, 

A  blessing  upon  thee  —  farewell! 

Far,  far  from  thy  home,  and  from  liberty's  clime, 
To  the  land  of  the  graces  you  hie, 

Where    vales    of   enchantment,    and    mountains 
sublime, 
Delight  and  astonish  the  eve. 


284  TO    THEODORE    S.    FAY. 

Where  genius  and  taste,  and  the  sweetest  of  arts, 

In  classical  beauty  excel  ; 
But  ah  !  wilt  thou  find  such  affectionate  hearts 

As  those  which  now  bid  thee  —  farewell ! 

Then,  music  and  love,  to  the  light-flitting  hours, 

The  plumage  of  paradise  lend  ; 
And,  sporting   with   beauty   in   balm-breathing 
bowers, 

Will  smilingly  welcome  our  friend. 
But  ah  !  can  their  witcheries  ever  impart 

A  joy  like  the  conjugal  spell, 
Which  she,  who  attends  thee,  has  laid  on  thy  heart  ? 

We  know  that  heart  better — farewell ! 

For  her,  and  for  thee,  we  shall  blessings  invoke, 

And  if  storms  on  the  ocean  assail, 
May  He,  who  to  Galilee's  billows  once  spoke, 

Soon  silence  the  voice  of  the  gale. 
And  roseate  health,  as  she  lights  up  the  cheek, 

Each  care  from  your  hearts  shall  dispel  ; 
And,  oh  !  when  possessed  of  the  blessing  you  seek, 

Return  to  our  bosom  —  farewell ! 


THE    PAST.  285 


THE   PAST. 

How  fleet  is  time  !  —  tbe  little  recent  year 
Seems  like  a  moment  that  was  scarcely  here 
Before  'twas  wasted  !     Time  still  onward  flies, 
Swift  as  a  swallow  seems  to  cleave  the  skies  ; 
Laughing  at  those  who,  indolently  blind, 
Seized  not  his  forelock  —  he  is  bald  behind  ! 

The  past !  what  is  it  bat  a  faded  dream 
Of  promised  joys  ?     A  bubble  on  the  stream 
Which  flows  unceasing  to  a  shoreless  sea, 
The  boundless  ocean  of  eternity  ! 

The  past !  where  is  it  ?     In  the  Eternal  mind 
It  still  exists,  to  all  the  future  joined, 
In  one  vast  panorama  !     Mortal  eye 
Sees  but  the  present,  as  it  passes  by  ! 

The  past !  why  is  it  that  it  leaves  behind 
So  sad  a  legacy  to  all  mankind  ? 
Memory  looks  back  with  vain  regrets  and  tears 
While  lingering  o'er  the  urn  of  wasted  years. 

The  past !  how  is  it  that  we  don't  improve 
From  these  instructive  pictures  as  they  move  ? 
Precept!  —  experience  !  —  how  can  man  demur  ? 
lt  Be  wise  to-day—'*"  is  madness  to  defer  !" 


286  the  minstrel's  farewell. 

Thus  mourn  the   bumble,  with  the  grave  in 
view — 
Thus  teach  the  wise  —  and  what  they  tench  is  true. 
But  hope,  sweet  hope,  illusive  hope,  still  smiles, 
Points  to  the  future  —  flatters  and  beguiles  ; 
All  trust  her  treacherous  promises  too  far, 
The  bubble  bursts  !  —  and  we  are — tohat  weave  I 


THE   MINSTREL'S   FAREWELL  TO   HIS  LYRE. 

When  Fate's  stern  fiat  dooms  fond  friends  to 
part, 
What  thrilling  pangs  pervade  the  feeling  heart! 
With  ardent  glow  the  proffered  hand  is  pressed, 
While  the  moist  eye  bespeaks  the  aching  breast  ; 
The  final  gaze,  we,  lingering  still  renew, 
Dreading  the  last,  the  painful  word  —  Adieu  ! 

So  I  —  a  bird  of  passage  —  wont  to  rove  — 
Have  oft  been  doomed  to  leave  the  friends  I  love  ; 
Have  oft  been  fated  to  endure  the  smart 
Which  now  afflicts  my  lacerated  heart  ; 
That  heart  alive  to  every  finer  glow, 
Enrapturing  joy  —  or  ecstacy  of  wo. 
Then,  friends  of  song,  attend  your  Minstrel's  lay, 
He  sings  but  this,  and  throws  his  lyre  away. 


the  minstrel's  fakewell.  287 

In  life's  fair  morn,  when  sunshine  warmed  the 
scene, 
And  fairy  hopes  danced  o'er  the  laughing  green, 
His  infant  Muse  essayed  the  artless  strain, 
On  Charles's  bank,  or  Newton's  verdant  plain  ; 
Gave  him  her  lyre,  and  taught  his  hand  to  play, 
While  flattering  Echo  chanted  back  the  lay. 

Pleased  like  a  child,  he  fondly  thought  't  was 
Fame, 
Ambition  kindled,  and  he  sought  the  dame  ; 
Unknowing  where  her  lofty  temple  stood, 
He  pierced  the  grotto  and  explored  the  wood  ; 
But  vain  the  search,  in  meadow,  vale,  or  hill, 
The  air-formed  phantom  flew,  but  answered  still, 
Till  tired  Experience  proved  the  sylvan  scene 
Held  not  the  temple  of  ambition's  queen. 

With  fond  regret  he  left  the  calm  retreat, 
Where  Nature's  charms  in  sweet  disorder  meet, 
Diversified  with  meadows,  groves,  and  hills, 
And  Charles's  thousand  tributary  rills  — 
Left  rustic  joys,  to  court  the  city's  smile, 
And  woke  the  strain  in  Beauty's  cause  awhile. 
He  sang  of  love — a  minstrel's  sweetest  dream, 
And  sang  sincerely  —  for  he  felt  the  theme  ; 
His  soul  was  poured  in  every  amorous  tone  — 
An  angel  heard,  and  answered  with  her  own. 


288  the  minstrel's  farewell. 

Columbia  called — to  arms  her  veterans  sprang, 
He  felt  the  impulse,  and  of  glory  sang  ; 
Swept  o'er  the  chords,  assumed  a  loftier  lay, 
And  vent'rous  dared  with  bolder  hand  to  play. 

But,  ah  !  his  harp  no  blooming  laurel  bears, 
His  humble  brow  no  blushing  garland  wears  ; 
Unknown,  unsought,  he  must  obscurely  sigh, 
Held  from  despair  but  by  affection's  tie  ; 
By  love  and  penury  condemned  to  know, 
Like  Leda's  sons,  alternate  bliss  and  wo. 

Then  Fame,  adieu !  no  more  he  courts  your 
charms  ; 
Welcome,  Retirement !  take  him  to  your  arms  ; 
Here,  gentle  Muse,  he  gives  you  back  the  lyre, 
Whose  tones  could  once  his  youthful  bosom  fire. 
That  lyre  shall  sleep,  nor  breathe  a  tone  again, 
Till  scenes  celestial  claim  the  glowing  strain  ; 
Till  realms  eternal  burst  upon  the  view, 
And  animate  the  wondering  bard  anew. 
Till  then,  farewell !    He  follows  Fame  no  more ! 
Bat  spurns  the  shrine  at  which  he  knelt  before — 
Let  Poverty  prepare  her  bitterest  draught, 
And  malice  barb  his  most  inveterate  shaft  — 
The  troubled  dream  of  life  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  a  bright  morning  dawn  to  fade  no  more. 

THE    END   OF    VOL.    I. 


l>1" 


March  ,  1905. 


NT.  STERLING  LOAN. 


■r 


Vj/Jrf/jfj?J/Jfstt/fJfJT?rJT4 


